


multiplied by seven

by 1001cranes



Series: By and By [2]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Body Modification, Branding, Dubious Consent, First Time, Loss of Virginity, M/M, Psychopaths In Love, Riding, Rimming, Scars, Shower Sex, Somnophilia, Thumb-sucking, Topping from the Bottom, Underage - Freeform, Virginity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-23
Updated: 2012-09-27
Packaged: 2017-11-04 04:59:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 26,340
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/390009
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/1001cranes/pseuds/1001cranes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Derek isn't exactly like other people. Stiles doesn't say that because he's in love with him, or whatever. He's not like Scott, who thinks Allison hung the freaking moon, or was the first girl to ever let a guy under her bra. Derek isn't like other people. Sometimes he's not exactly <i>sane</i>.</p><p>psychopaths in love - the story from Derek & Stiles's side.<br/>companion fic to 'hear his alibis'</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Multiplied by seven](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2238168) by [Heiliglust89](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Heiliglust89/pseuds/Heiliglust89)



> **WARNING** \- this is NOT a particularly light and happy fic. Okay, maybe _fairly_ happy, no one dies of a terminal illness or anything, but its definitely darker than John's POV. If you are happy with fluffy cuteness, you might want to stop after 'hear his alibis'. 
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> on the other hand, if you like slightly dark, slightly creepy, and you're cool with underaged sex, keep going.  
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Stiles still kind of gets the feeling Derek doesn't like him - or even knows what to _do_ with him, but, well, Stiles is pretty sure his Dad has those days too. Stiles is an acquired taste, like brussel sprouts - and once you learn to like brussel sprouts, you _love_ them, and hey! they're good for you! but that doesn't mean you want to eat them everyday. Truth. Hard truth. Stiles speaks 'em.

The thing is, though, it's kind of nice just having someone around. Stiles loves his dad, but his job keeps him out a lot, and even then it's Stiles's _Dad_. He doesn't play Pacman, or lacrosse, and he doesn't know what a _hag_ Mrs. Stockard, the librarian, is the way Derek does.

Kinda worth putting up with abuse.

Not to mention Derek's _car_.

Today starts out as one of the lacrosse days. Stiles spends most of his time running after the ball while Derek spends most of his time pelting it at Stiles as hard as he can. It's a system. A sick system, maybe, but it works. They're out of sight of the house, because Stiles has broken more than a few windows in his time, and when he digs himself back out of the undergrowth, Derek is leaning up against one of the trees, something small and metal in his hands.

"Is that a lighter?" Stiles asks, because he lacks the ability to censor himself, particularly when he really _should_.

"Gonna tell your dad?" Derek asks, his tone somehow bored and pointed at the time, like he _knows_ Stiles is planning on telling his dad. Like he thinks Stiles is some sort of sissy crybaby who tells his dad everything - when, in fact, Stiles keeps quite a bit to himself, thank you very much.

"Gonna burn my house down next?" Stiles sasses back, and Derek shoots him a sideways look _of doom_.

Stiles kind of wants to know the answer to his question now. Burning is probably in his top five ways he would really, actually prefer not to die. He's just saying.

"Your dad's been good to me," Derek says after a second, which Stiles takes to mean he won't be roasted in his sleep anytime soon. Thanks Dad - your humanity has saved two lives this day.

"So can we light something on fire?" Stiles says, because - yeah. He's got no sense. He's a teenage boy, he likes lighting things on fire just as much as the next guy. Except the next guy actually burned down a house. "As long as its not, you know, my house. Or me."

Derek rolls his eyes.

"Just a little one?" Stiles wheedles.

"No. You'll burn yourself. Or the whole damn forest."

"Aw," Stiles says, "you _care_ ," because he hasn't played with both literal _and_ metaphorical fire today. Derek sends him a look that makes Stiles's heart skip a beat, and not in the good tingly girls-have-cooties way.

Derek has a burn himself, already, on the side of his wrist, moving a third of the way up his arm. Stiles reaches out for it, touches it - weirdly smooth under his fingers. Slick, but not wet.

“Can you feel that?”

"It's mostly numb.”

“Huh.” This time Stiles pokes it. Stiles's therapist says they’re working on his impulse control, and that his medication is supposed to help with that, but whatever. As long as he stops getting yelled at in class so much. His dad doesn't likes getting those phone calls, and Stiles doesn't like getting yelled at twice. It really seems excessive. It's not the yelling helps him pay any more _attention_ ; you think someone would figure that out

“Hey!” Derek jerks away from him and glares. “You're such a... weird kid."

“You’re weird.” Stiles pokes him again, Derek shoves him back, and suddenly they're on the ground, tussling.

Not exactly an uncommon occurrence, and Stiles uses all the knowledge he has at his disposal, jamming his fingers into Derek's sides. Feels him try to jump out of his skin and grins. "You have - rage issues," he says. He's heard his dad say it. Not about Derek, specifically, but if the rage-y shoe fits.

Derek's face _contorts_.

Aw, shit.

| |

Something about the kid just _infuriates_ him.

That's not hard to pinpoint. He never shuts up, he has opinions about everything, he won't leave things alone when he should. He's the poster child for ADHD. It's a wonder Derek _hasn't_ tried to set him on fire.

This isn't even the first time they've fought, is the worst part. Is the _stupid_ part. They're teenage boys, which not only makes roughhousing a way of life, but it's even _fun_ for Derek. It's easy. He beats Stiles every time; his skinny stick legs and arms, just coming through another growth spurt.

This time Derek pushes Stiles into the dirt, hard. He doesn't have _rage issues_ , he - he has a temper, maybe, like everyone else in his family. Everyone but Peter, who had his life burned out of him in the fire, like he was the only one who _lost_ -

Derek grunts, Stiles pinned under his hands, the points of his knees, and there's an unconscious, agreed-upon lull to catch their breath.

Except Stiles is growing stiff against his leg, face gone red with embarrassment. "Let me up," he says, voice wavering. Not looking Derek in the eye. "I'm sorry. Let me up."

Derek doesn't know why he does it. Why he doesn't get up. It's not the first time either of them has gotten hard. Stiles is so young - it's so _easy_ to make him hard. Just the heat of another body, the friction. And it's not like Derek has much control either. He's sixteen. He's hard too, pushed up against the roundness of Stiles's belly. A little cling of baby fat, and that might make Derek harder.

He _should_ get up. Adjust himself, and put out the fire, and head back to the house for dinner.

But when he pins Stiles down - when he has this kid, this sweet little kid, tight little body attached to gangly limbs, mouth like a sin - mouth wet and hot and open, with those sweet little noises he makes - Jesus, Derek is only _human_. Sometimes he doesn't even _like_ the kid, but he loves the way he can crush Stiles to his body, hold him down, push him into the dirt and rub their bodies together. Likes him just like this.

He should get up, but he reaches his hand up Stiles's shorts instead. Grabs hold of his sweet little cock.

" _Uhm_ ," Stiles says, like he tried to smother a squeak before it could escape, and didn't quite make it. "Derek --"

"Shut up," he says, and Stiles's mouth snaps shut. His eyes widening like a cartoon character's. The inside of Derek's hand is wet, already, and Derek thinks about tasting it, but he doesn't know what he'd do if Stiles tried to wrench away. "Shut up, just - " just _take it_ , just let him do this, just -

Stiles whines again, and Derek _pulls_. Feels the jump of Stiles's cock in his hands, and the shove of his hips as Stiles thrashes up against the mesh of his shorts. Sticking and dragging. It must hurt - Derek hurts, still trapped inside his own shorts, he's sick with it, humping up against Stiles like an animal while Stiles squirms. Has to put his the other arm across Stiles's collarbones to keep him down. To watch Stiles's face as he moans. One of Stiles's hands scrabbling against Derek's chest.

It takes almost nothing to get Stiles off, really. Probably the first time he has with someone else. The first time someone else touched him like this, Derek thinks, and feels his own thighs start to tremble.

"Oh," Stiles says, one long groan, when he comes, a few hot spurts inside Derek's hand. His face has gone flushed, and Derek puts his mouth against Stiles's cheekbone to feel the heat of it.

"Stiles," he says, his own kind of desperation, shoving his dick against the groove of Stiles's hip, the little patch of skin between his shorts and his shirt. Pushing his face into the side of Stiles's neck. He lifts his hips, nudges Stiles's legs open, and Stiles avoids Derek's gaze. Presses his cheek into the dirt. His mouth is open, though, and red - tongue flicking out to lick at his bottom lip.

" _Derek_ ," he cries, snuffles it out against Derek's shoulder, and Derek comes in his own shorts like a kid. Collapses on top of Stiles when he feels his shoulders and elbows unlock. Pushes his fingers into the small of Stiles's back, and still doesn't get up.

| |

"What happened to you?" John asks when they get back to the house, and Derek freezes. Dirt all over the both of them, and twigs, and dead leaves, and Stiles face still flushed bright red.

"The woods are treacherous, father-mine," Stiles says instead, as John looks heavenward. "As are, you know, tree roots. I'm gonna go take a shower," he continues, starting towards the stairs.

"Try not to hurt yourself _there_ , too," John yells after him, and Derek breathes.

| |

Two days from now, when Derek sees Stiles looking at him sideways - Stiles hits the ground so hard tears spring to his eyes. He gets the air knocked out of him, and when it comes back in one sick nauseous rush Derek's tongue is already in his mouth.

"Shh, it's okay," Derek says. Soothing. Making these little petting motions against Stiles's wrists, "it's a lot, it's a lot, it's okay, I know." Talking so Stiles won't, so Stiles _can't_. "Just breathe," and Stiles does.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Derek wants too much, and Stiles expects too little.

One day, Derek doesn't come over.

It's okay. It's not like he _always_ does, or that Stiles was expecting him, or anything. He doesn't _miss_ him. Stiles's dad calls to say he'll be late, and to take some of the money from the groceries envelope if he and Derek want pizza.

"Derek's not here," Stiles sniffs, and on the other end of the line his dad chuckles. 

"He isn't, huh?" and his dad sounds... amused, maybe. Stiles seriously doesn't understand adults. 

"I'm getting Chinese," he announces, because Derek hates Chinese; he says he can taste the MSG. Call it Stiles's petty revenge.

"Get me some egg foo young for later."

" _Maybe_ beef and broccoli," Stiles counters, and he can pretty much feel his dad squinting at him through the phone. 

"Don't you have homework to do?

"Don't you have bad guys to catch?"

His dad sighs. "More like paperwork to file."

"Being a Sheriff is so _glamorous_ ," Stiles gushes, and laughs when his dad hangs up on him.

He orders Chinese food to be delivered - egg foo young _and_ beef and broccoli; if Stiles eats most of the egg foo young, his father probably won't die of a heart attack by the time he's fifty - and puts in Casablanca, his secret shame. Most guys his age would be breaking out the porn, and Stiles just wants to watch his mom's favorite movie. 

This is your life, Stiles Stilinski. Get used to it. 

So when the doorbell rings a half an hour later, Stiles is not expecting Derek to be standing on his porch, holding the Chinese food. 

"Seriously?" he asks. "Did you attack the delivery guy? Did you tip? Did you _pay_ him?"

"I had cash," Derek says, which - is not exactly an answer, actually.

"Okayyyyy," Stiles drawls out, instead, and Derek takes the bag into the kitchen.

"You know I hate Chinese," he says, and Stiles makes a face he (probably) can't see.

"You weren't here," Stiles shoots back, and tries to reassure himself that it didn't come out whiny, at all. "This is for Dad and I. Not you."

"Dad and me," Derek corrects, absently, and Stiles makes another face. "Come with me," he says, and Stiles stares at him for a second, because - what?

"What?" he repeats, because - yeah, he's never had much of a brain-to-mouth filter. "Come - go where?"

"Something I want to show you," Derek says, and okay, not ominous at all.

"But cold egg foo young is disgusting," Stiles protests, which is how he ends up eating it at the kitchen table while Derek watches.

"You're a freak, you know," and that definitely doesn't come out fond, either. 

"Eat faster," is all Derek says - commands, really, he has a _tone_ \- and Stiles leaves the last pancake for his dad, because everyone deserves a little something in nice in their lives now and again. Even if it will probably clog his arteries.

"Where are we going?" Stiles whines, when Derek drags him to the car. Not that Derek's car isn't one of Stiles's favorite places to be, because really, it's nice. And there's a surprisingly large backseat, which is _also_ nice, for all the reasons you're probably imagining, though Stiles has only gotten to do that once so far. Sadly, Stiles is up in the front seat, being driven into the woods, because his life couldn't be anymore like a horror movie than it already is, obviously. 

Derek pulls off in one of the side service roads, and Stiles gets the _wiggins_.

"No, seriously, where are we going?" He's totally coming back from beyond the grave to remind his father that this is why Stiles should have a cell phone. Should have _had_ , if his death is truly imminent.

"The old Stevens place," Derek says, absently, and tugs at Stiles's wrist to move him along. "Come on, or we'll miss it."

"Miss _what_?" It's like playing Who's on First, where Derek knows and doesn't realize Stiles doesn't. Or - something. 

"The fire," and okay, _now_ Stiles is interested. Not any less likely to die horrifically, maybe, but that was always a possibility.

"We're setting a house on fire?" Stiles nearly shrieks, because, jesus, the whole point of this community service thing was so Derek _wouldn't_ keep burning houses down. Stiles's dad would be _pissed_. "What did Old Man Stevens ever do to you?"

Derek makes a slashing noise across his throat, and then pushes two fingers against Stiles's lips, mid-squeak. _Rude_. "He died, Stiles. He died and his deadbeat kids donated his house to the fire department. Which means they're going to set it on fire for training."

"Oh." Well, that makes sense. And is less likely to end with anyone in prison. 

"Some of the forestry guys were talking about it," Derek continues, absently. "Had to make sure it wouldn't set the whole forest on fire."

Good point. Old Man Stevens was exactly the kind of creepy old guy you expected to find living out on one of the backroads in a weird little house. He seemed to support himself by hunting all year round - Stiles's dad kept having to give him warnings about permits and stuff, but didn't really have the heart to book an eighty-year-old man - which, Stiles's dad in a nutshell, apparently. 

"Here," Derek says, and yanks Stiles to the side, down into a crouch. So hard he stumbles. Falls up against Derek's arm, and tries not to cling when Derek grabs for him instinctively. 

"Quiet," Derek says, severe, and Stiles gives Derek his best harumph, because with all the fire fighters milling around, it's not like anyone's even going to be _looking_ at them. Like Derek doesn't have them hidden in the perfect little spy hidey-hole, crouched down out of sight. Pressed up together. Derek's muscles are taut, pulled tight, like he's ready to run, or spring out, any second. Practically vibrating. 

Stiles shivers, and only partly from the cold.

Then next to him, the quiet metal hiss of a zipper. "Take it," Derek says, and shoves his hoodie at Stiles.

"But -"

"Take it," Derek repeats. "It's going to be warm soon enough, anyway."

Stiles shoves his arms in and zips it back up. Lets his hands hang loose in the sleeves, because they're way too long. It almost slips off his shoulders, really, and what Stiles wouldn't _give_ for a growth spurt. It smells like Derek. His cheap shampoo-conditioner combo, plain soap, something that Stiles would tentatively label 'dude smell' - he's on the lacrosse team, after all, dude smell is something he knows way too much horrifying detail about - but it's nicer than that. More Derek.

Stiles falls a little sideways, onto his knees and ass. Less of a crouch. Derek barely spares him a glance.

"Starting," Derek says, absently, and yeah, what was a bright flickering light in one of the windows has turned into a full-blown blaze.

"Whoa," Stiles breathes, because - wow. "This is _so cool_."

And it is. It so entirely is. There are two fire trucks here, dozens of firefighters geared up, dutifully running in and out of the building, dragging out dummies, or hosing down one side of the house. But that doesn't matter, really, because it's the _fire_ that's mesmerizing. It's grown, it's taken over the house - running up and down the frame, like the whole thing has gone opaque, almost, and you can see all the fire trapped on the inside licking it's way out.

Stiles turns to look at Derek. Thinking, maybe - thinking about what Derek's thinking. Is he afraid of the fire? It would make sense to be afraid? Does he _like_ fire, like a pyro, _is_ he a pyro? Don't get Stiles wrong, he gets why Derek might have burnt down his own house, but does he want to burn down more? Is that why they're here?

But Derek is looking at Stiles, not at the fire. Bright sharp gaze, eyes glimmering even in the dusk, and Stiles tilts his head down. Blushes a little, and hopes his face is flushed enough from the fire to hide it. 

Then the press of Derek's nose to the side of Stiles's face. Breathing Stiles in, even as his lips light over Stiles cheek. As he lowers Stiles to the ground, careful, like Stiles is going to run away now.

Sex, then. Stiles can handle sex.

Derek hunches over him, blocking out the light from the fire, the heat, and Stiles shivers again when Derek starts to unzip his hoodie. Unbutton his jeans. Cold dirt against his back, Derek's warm skin, Stiles's heated cheeks, the cool air - weirdly patterned, and the heat spreading, even as Derek shoves more and more of Stiles's clothing aside. 

"Turns you on, huh?" Stiles asks, which is probably the stupidest question ever, because _duh_. 

"I wanted you to see," is what Derek says, Stiles's hipbones held neatly in the warm palms of his hands, and Stiles takes that - well, he takes it for what he's starting to think it might actually mean. That Stiles isn't just for passing the time. That Derek doesn't hang out with him just because it's better than hanging out with Stiles's dad. That Derek feels things for Stiles - scary things, heart-clenching things, best-kept-in-the-dark things - things that makes Stiles do stupid things and continue to do stupider things, things that lead to stained clothes and burnt down houses and Derek zipping Stiles into his hoodie as they head back to the car.

| |

For the first few months of Derek's probation, John invites him over once a week, at least. He makes dinner, or orders something, while Derek and Stiles head into the woods to play lacrosse, or stay in to watch lacrosse, or play Pacman. They do, sometimes. But it's tempting - so, so tempting, _too_ tempting to knock Stiles to the forest floor, or for Derek to slide his hand up under Stiles's shirt, or into his jeans. To watch his face flush, the way he curls his fingers around Derek's wrist to tug him away. Derek likes to pinch at Stiles's nipples - bite them, when he gets the chance, through Stiles's oversized t-shirts. Leave little wet marks that Stiles worries at with his fingers. Covers with crossed arms, defensive. He watches Stiles chew on his hoodie strings, the edge of his shirt collars, and Derek replaces them with his tongue, his mouth, his fingers.

When they're indoors Stiles worries about his father - keeps looking over shoulder, tracking the sounds from the kitchen. Asks how long until dinner's ready with a rising, cracking voice. Outside is better. When they're outside, Stiles keeps them away from the house. Brings them deeper and deeper into the forest, shadows growing darker and darker, and Derek has Stiles against the trees, in the undergrowth, on moss and stones and twigs, and he learns Stiles as intensely as he's learned anything. What Stiles really means when he babbles - nervous babble, angry babble, confused babble - babbling just to check in, babbling just to fill the silence. Derek learns the shape of Stiles's mouth, the velvet plush of its inside - the happy curl of his lip, the sullen pout, the hurt line of it. Derek learns how he to smooth it away. To kiss Stiles the way Stiles likes to be kissed, to coax Stiles into his lap. To cuddle Stiles, and pet him, and make him happy. How to make Stiles come: hard, or fast, or slow. How to quiet him.

Today Derek is lucky. John is stuck taking care of an auto accident on the main highway, and Derek has Stiles for the afternoon, the evening. In Stiles's own bed -- strange, how kinky that seems, Stiles's _bed_ \- the place where he sleeps, where he's tugged on his own dick, furtive, maybe ashamed or confused, and Derek gets hard just thinking about it, Stiles rubbing one out in the middle of the night, or waking up in the morning with wet, sticky sheets. Does he dream about Derek? He must, of course he does; Derek probably runs through Stiles's dreams the way Stiles runs through Derek's. 

Derek starts off easy, the way Stiles likes - not slow, necessarily, but easy - Stiles's body under Derek's, friction building between their bodies until Stiles is the one who begs. Here, Derek kisses Stiles just to taste him - wintergreen gum and the cereal he ate after school, and Mountain Dew; a hint of ink, maybe, like he's been chewing on pens again. Stiles's tongue laps back, just as eager. Not quite a fight, but a game - tagging each other, back and forth, until Stiles's whines build, and break; until he clutches Derek to him, legs splayed so Derek can thrust harder, push Stiles into the mattress until there is no give, until Stiles can't help himself, until he shakes and comes in Derek's hand, like that first time; or in his own jeans, lashes wet with tears. 

Stiles does a lot of laundry. Derek helps, sometimes, but Stiles half-dressed and against something that _vibrates_ \- well.

Derek has already gotten off twice - once rubbing up against Stiles, nice and easy; and the second nearly untouched, two fingers in Stiles, snug and wet, tight enough to hurt, while Stiles shouted, with no one around to hear. Stiles has come three or four times more, the sun not even beginning to set. Still so many hours to go. Too much for thirteen, maybe, but Derek loves this, loves making Stiles come over and over again, as many times as his body can handle, more times than feels good, by the end. Derek loves that the most, when Stiles is caught between moaning and crying, when Stiles scrambles - when he's confused, when he doesn't know which way is up; he never pushes Derek away, but clings harder instead, scrabbling at Derek's shoulders, his back.

"Stop, oh, _stop_ ," he says, "god, Derek-" and Derek stops, he does. Just after nuzzling Stiles's poor cock one more time; mouthing at the head, sticky with come, red and abused, and Stiles whines, even as his hips jump.

"Good," Derek says, drunk with it, thumb slipping over Stiles's cheekbone, the corner of his lip. Into his mouth. "You're so good."

| |

In the next hour, Derek makes Stiles come two more times. 

It hurts. It does, as good as it feels, it _hurts_. It makes Stiles look a mess, shivery under Derek's hands, and when Derek starts to rut up against Stiles, can't help it, too lost in his own desire, now - Stiles looks away.

Stiles does this, sometimes. When he can't quite keep up with Derek, with what Derek wants. Derek knows that, he _gets_ that. He doesn't try to push, he doesn't mean to, he just - he just _wants_ , he wants so much, it's hard to hold it all in. It's hard to be around Stiles and not have it all come spilling out. He doesn't get the chance to indulge himself, not often - their time together is a stolen hour playing lacrosse, a furtive hand-job in the living room before dinner - when Derek is given free reign, he goes overboard. He casts himself over a cliff, and he takes Stiles with him.

"Sorry," he says instead, "I'm sorry, Stiles, please -" even as his fingers tighten around Stiles's wrists, even as he keeps snapping his hips, slamming himself up against Stiles, their hipbones crushing against one another, bruises for certain, low and unseen, but felt with every step. "Sorry," again, over and over again, "I want-" because it pains him, it _kills_ him that Stiles is too tiny to fuck, too small, that Derek would hurt him, would tear him open - it makes Derek want to burn the world down, that they can't be together, not totally, not entirely. That there are parts of Stiles Derek is not yet allowed to touch. Derek isn't patient. Isn't used enough to happiness to be willing to wait for more of it. 

"S'okay," Stiles says. Voice small, and wavering. Shaking a little underneath Derek's hands. "S'okay, I know- " and Derek feels something in his chest, a sudden and bright burning - the intensity of feeling he has for Stiles, the sudden flare of affection and need that never seems to stop surprising him. 

"I just _want_ you," he says. An explanation, or an excuse. He doesn't know. It feels like there's no one else but Stiles, sometimes - he looks at girls, he looks at other boys, and he might as well be looking at a rock or tree. People want _that_? It doesn't make sense to him. It makes him a little crazy, too, the other way around - everyone would want Stiles, if they could have him like this. If they knew how sweet he was, how giving. If _they_ pushed him to the ground, if they tried to kiss him. If the thought of touching anyone else confuses Derek, the thought of someone else touching Stiles _infuriates_ him. 

He hurts Stiles. He doesn't mean to, but he does. 

He tries to make it up to him after. Kissing and cuddling, stroking all the way up and down Stiles's back. Sucking him slow, and gentle, swallowing Stiles down and letting him pull at Derek's hair. Good enough to make him cry.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> time keeps moving, and things keep... happening.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warnings for somnophilia, more (still) underage sex, consent issues all the plaaaace. though that was at least _marginally_ implied in the somnophilia, me thinks. 
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> this was much longer but if was draaaaagging, so some was pushed to the next chapter. Hopefully I didn't screw up anything as far as continuity is concerned - not that I have much in the way of plot.  
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Sometimes on the weekends, Derek takes Stiles into the woods - deep in the woods, hide-a-body-somewhere deep into the woods - and they light fires. They burn down the last charred remains of the Stevens place. They find stumps to build around, or make brushpiles of their own. Derek knows the forestry department's schedule - where they're going to be, where they've cut down brush, where it would be an _intensely bad idea_ to light a fire - and they follow behind them, building on what they've cut down, and burning it.

Kind of like the cycle of nature, Stiles thinks. Derek tells him about how in Europe, somewhere, they used to burn whole forests down, just to give them a change to spring back up and renew themselves. Right out of the ash. Not that they're going to burn the whole woods down, or anything. Probably. Stiles has no plans in that direction.

He likes it though. The regular burning stuff, he means. Not just because it's fun to burn stuff down - and it _is_ , Stiles is pretty sure that's a universal constant. People _love_ burning stuff. Why else would candles be such a popular thing these days, really? All those suburban housewives and their repressed urges - but because he gets to be closer to Derek. Like he gets a peek inside his weird brain. 

Derek doesn't talk a lot. Stiles doesn't know if he did before, when he had a family, but he doesn't now. Granted, it kind of suits him - tall, dark, and a touch of creepy - but talking is certainly how _Stiles_ communicates, so. He's getting a little better at Derek-to-Stiles translation, but there are moments.

The fire they set today is dying down, and Derek is lying on top of Stiles. Nuzzling his neck. A little like he's looking for a good place to bite, and Stiles lets Derek press him a little harder into the ground without a thought. God, but he likes that, he likes it _so much_ , and he doesn't even understand why: Derek on top of him, holding him down like a cage, like someone is going to steal him away, or Stiles is going to get up and run, and either of those options is totally unacceptable. And also pretty unlikely, if Stiles is being honest.

He feels like he could stay here forever. Don't get Stiles wrong, he's _hard_ and everything - he's thirteen, it doesn't take much, and it takes _nothing_ when Derek is around - but he doesn't really feel the need to do anything about it. Anything besides lie under Derek and, well - cuddle. Or whatever.

Derek bites him then, a little, and Stiles yelps like a puppy whose tail has been stepped on.

| |

Derek turns seventeen in the fall. What might be nearly winter, if they didn't live in California. He spends his birthday with his uncle, who doesn't even remember that it's Derek's birthday. On one hand - it hurts. It hurts more than Derek thought it would, because he realized Peter didn't remember. He _knows_ that. But still. He's the only family Derek has.

On the other hand, he's mostly pissed he's not spending it with Stiles. 

When he comes over the next day, and John tells him it's _over_ , no more community service, no more weekly check ins, there's a moment where Derek feels -

Where he feels nothing. Not the clothes on his back, or the earth beneath his feet. He thinks he stops breathing. That the blood in his veins stop moving. A moment where he has died and no one has noticed.

The good thing, the only good thing, maybe, the bittersweet side of it, is that Stiles looks as surprised as Derek does. As let down. That he'll miss Derek as much as Derek will miss him, that maybe - Derek could find a way to Stiles, of course he could. John isn't home a lot, Derek could come over. Derek could sneak in, late at night - if Stiles wants him, he'll never stop. He could _never_ stop. 

When John mentions dinner, it doesn't even sink in at first.

Dinner.

"You don't want me to leave?" he stammers out, and John's face softens right in front of him eyes.

Of course. Of course, what was Derek thinking? John would never push him away. He thinks Derek is some poor, misunderstood little orphan boy. Which is a pack of untruths, sure, but not exactly _lies_. 

John says something, then, but it buzzes in Derek's ears, like all his blood has decided to rush around at once. Stiles's expression is relieved, open - stupidly open, god, he's going to be the death of them, some day, soul shining out for the whole world to see, letting anyone peek inside of him - and when Stiles volunteers to set the table, Derek follows him into the kitchen. Slams Stiles up against the wall and kisses him like Derek's sharing the air in his lungs, like John really is kicking him out, like they'll never see one another again. 

Stiles's arms come up to twine around Derek's neck, the heavy soft press of them, and Derek buries his face in Stiles's neck and breathes, surrounded by Stiles's scent. Wants to pull it into his lungs. Permeate them, so it never leaves. 

"Derek," Stiles gasps, "Derek, Derek, we _can't_ ," anguished, and Derek steps back. Drops him, nearly, and Stiles's back hits the wall with a solid thud.

"Later," Derek says, grits out, shoving the words past his clenched teeth. "Later," oh fuck, _later_ , Derek won't be able to make it through dinner. He doesn't care that John is just checking the grill, that he could come in at any second. And he has to care, he's _supposed_ to care. He has to. 

During dinner, Stiles's hand keeps sneaking over to Derek's and squeezing. Like he's making sure Derek is still there.

They do the dishes. They play Pacman in the living room while John calls the station to check in. Then the three of them watch a movie together, John siting in his La-Z-Boy while Stiles and Derek share the smaller couch, and Derek tracks Stiles's every movement, every little squirm, every time he jumps, every bit of running commentary he makes, and John sometimes rebuts. The way Stiles's toes dig into Derek's leg. Derek puts his hand to the small of Stiles's back for two seconds at a time, when John isn't paying attention. Slides just under Stiles's t-shirt, as if to say, _this is real_. They're watching Indiana Jones again, but it could be Rainbow Brite for all the attention Derek pays to the screen.

It's nearly eleven by the time the movie ends, and Stiles asks if Derek can stay the night. Derek tries to relax. Puts on a neutral, slightly pleading face. He'll come in through the window later, if he has to. 

"It's _Friday_ ," Stiles wheedles, moving towards a whine, and the corner of John's lip turns up, rueful, like he knows he's been outgunned.

"I suppose that's alright," he says, and Stiles throws up victory arms, bounding up the stairs, yelling over his shoulder about getting blankets from the linen closet. 

"Should you call Peter?" John asks, and Derek's gaze drops. 

"He's already in bed. And he knows I'm here."

John gives him a sharp-eyed look, but doesn't say anything when Stiles comes trampling back down the stairs.

Derek and Stiles have sex in Stiles's room five minutes later. On the floor, because Stiles's bed squeaks like John picked it out specifically for that purpose. John is downstairs doing paperwork, drinking the Scotch he keeps hidden in his office drawer, and Derek knows they have time enough for this if they're quiet. Stiles does good, so good, mouth open and whimpering under Derek's, just a little, and then one thin cry into Derek's chest, while Derek holds him so tightly he goes limp. Not quite enough air. 

They do it again a few minutes hour later, and a half hour after that, once Stiles's dad has gone to sleep in the bedroom next to them. Snores coming through the wall like an all-clear.

Derek has to pull Stiles into his bed, after. Wincing at the noise.

"M'glad," Stiles murmurs. "Didn't think..." and he trails off, shoving his face into his pillow and sighing, while Derek fights to get the blankets out from under him.

"Me either," he says, even though Stiles is past hearing it. Derek's going to have to start thinking about it, he realizes. How this is going to work. How it might change. What he might need to do. He crawls in besides Stiles, lets him settle and throw his arms around Derek like a tiny, warm octopus.

He doesn't remember falling asleep, only that it happens - that he wakes up the next morning to John knocking, and his booming voice coming through the door. "Hey boys. You up?"

Stiles groans and tries to hide under the pillow. Which doesn't exactly work, since Derek has stolen it for his own. "Sure, _now_."

John laughs. "Just checking whether Derek wanted waffles or pancakes."

"Pancakes," Derek mutters, and Stiles repeats it. Loudly.

"Be down in fifteen, all right?" John says, followed by the clomp of his feet down the stairs. Easy enough to see where Stiles gets his grace. 

"Fifteen minutes," Stiles says hopefully, and Derek tries to hide his grin in the pillow. 

| |

Derek spends the entire weekend at the Stilinskis and most of the next week too; every waking moment he doesn't have to be in school. John looks indulgent and a little happy, even, whenever he sees them together. Happy that Derek is doing well? Happy that Stiles has such a good friend? Derek has to get better at this. Has to figure it out.

Ironically - or something like irony, anyway, Derek thinks - they spend most of their time actually playing lacrosse in the woods, because Stiles is worried about tryouts. It doesn't mean Derek leaves Stiles _alone_ , precisely, but it builds up, a bit. Being around Stiles all this time and not getting a chance to touch him. 

John always gives them a warning whistle before dinner; enough time to come in and shower. To make themselves presentable, John says, with the half-serious implication that would take a lot more than twenty minutes.

Today is no exception. They clamber up the stairs. Almost a race, a pointed elbow or two pushed somewhere it doesn't belong, and when they reach the bathroom door Stiles turns to Derek, red-faced, cheeky grin, "do you wanna go first, or - " and Derek grabs Stiles by his sweaty t-shirt. Yanks him into the bathroom, turns on the shower, and starts stripping them both down. Stiles makes one of his 'you adorable caveman' faces, and Derek takes a moment just to kiss him. To rub his nose across the smear of dirt on Stiles's forehead. 

Then he pulls Stiles into the shower and scrubs them down, and just when Stiles's face starts to turn pink from the heat, Derek shoves him face up against the tiled wall. It doesn't take two boys very long to shower off - even when done separately - so they have to be quick. 

They can do nearly anything, as long as they're quick.

Derek drops to his knees. Pushes Stiles's legs apart, and licks one long stripe down from the base of Stiles's spine to the pucker there - pink already, like he's preemptively embarrassed, and the _noise_ Stiles makes - fuck. It's always so good, though, rimming Stiles. Watching him try to cram his fist in his mouth, even as he shoves his hips back into Derek's face. Clean boyish taste, licking away the sweat still clinging to the small of Stiles's back, and then pushing in his fingers along with his tongue - shallow little pushes, because even with lube, it doesn't take much for Derek to feel that stretch, the too-far stretch, because Stiles is small inside, so _tight_ , Derek thinks, desperate, and he bites the curve of Stiles's ass, harder - harder than he means to, but God, it's better than other things.

.

Too quick, Derek thinks, somewhere between regret and a _savage_ anger - the whole thing, too quick, but so well-practiced. Derek wants to taste him, everywhere he can, and they never really have enough time. Or they can never be loud enough. There is never the chance to strip Stiles naked and not worry. Never _free_ enough. Sometimes Derek just has to _take_ , and damn the consequences. Derek knows where to bite, and how hard, and where to lick, and how much, and exactly how many of his fingers Stiles can take - how deep he can take them, and when Stiles comes it's like his orgasm was ripped out of him. He can barely stand up after, and Derek can't help himself. Has to hook his arms under Stiles's and shove him against the wall, has to shove his dick between Stiles's legs, his poor shaking legs, and it takes only a few good thrusts to get Derek off. Come mixing with Stiles's on the wall. Sliding down toward the drain.

He hears John yell, faintly. He's never come looking before, but they've also never taken so long. Derek has to turn off the shower and towel them both off, with Stiles's mouth against Derek's collarbones. Taking in these shallow little breaths. He's fucked out, too-much-too-fast, on top of lacrosse practice. Barely on his feet.

Derek sticks his head outside the bathroom door to make sure John isn't right there - though what's he going to do if he is, fuck - and brings Stiles to his bedroom, still naked. Almost a drag, really, when Stiles is such a dead weight, but he gets Stiles to bed. Listens to the little half-gurgle, half-snort Stiles makes when he rolls onto his side.

Derek's about to tuck him in, when he - pauses.

Because Stiles looks - 

He's so - 

He looks even younger when sleeps, impossibly. Like a child, even though Derek knows that he's not. Can see that he's not, sprawled out naked on the bed.

"Stiles," Derek says, one hand curled up over Stiles's shoulder, quick, " _Stiles_ ," but he doesn't stir. Makes another little mumbling noise, but doesn't wake up. 

Fuck.

Derek doesn't have control over any of his baser instincts, really. He's always known that. There's a nearly year-long period of proof as far as that's concerned. But this is pretty new, pretty different, pretty _fucked up_ , so even he's a little shocked. At the thoughts that enter his head, and how quickly they get him hard. Again. Jesus.

" _Stiles_ ," Derek says, one more time, a little louder - a warning, for the love of God - and Stiles just wrinkles his nose. Makes a little shushing noise.

"Nrrg," he manages, and Derek takes a deep breath. Lets his hand slide from Stiles's shoulder to the curve of his throat. His jawline. One thumb set against his lower lip. Stile turns his head - roots for Derek's thumb, chases it, mouth falling a little further open - and when Derek sets his thumb inside, feels the plush wet of it, the pull - when Stiles starts to _suck_ \- 

"Shit," he says, " _shit_ ," and drops his towel. Reaches down with his other hand to grab his dick, tug at the length of it. He's not - this isn't okay, this is really not okay, but that doesn't stop his hand from moving. Doesn't remove his thumb from Stiles's mouth. It's - it feels so hot, Stiles's gentle suction, the way Derek's skin starts to wrinkle, to sensitize. The scrape of Stiles's teeth like a brand.

When he pulls his thumb away, Stiles makes a tiny moue, a little pout as his mouth puckers. Like he misses having something in his mouth. And Derek thinks, briefly - really, honestly briefly, a microsecond, a singular moment of 'if I was another person' - about putting the head of his dick between Stiles's lips and _pushing_. Slow, deliberate shoves towards the back of Stiles's throat, watching him try and swallow. Helpless. Waking up, or maybe not. Maybe just watching the furrow between his eyebrows deepen, until Derek comes. Watching Stiles's throat try and work, hearing him moan and wheeze. Watching him _choke_.

This isn't so bad then. This isn't the same thing. Just the head in Stiles's mouth. Sliding along the inside of his cheek, butting up against his palate when his tongue rolls. Not hurting him in any way. Just letting him suck. Pulling the tip back out now and again just to run it across Stiles's bottom lip. To trace the curve there, and watch his tongue chase the spit and precome Derek smears around with his fingers. It's not hurting Stiles - god, in a way, it's hurting _Derek_ , trying to hold this all in. The feeling in his chest, so savage and hard and about wanting to _hurt_ \- the bed starts to squeak, to rub up against the wall as Derek rocks his hips. As he starts jerking himself off in earnest, dick rubbing against Stiles's lips, and sliding over his face, and pushing into Stiles's mouth when he can manage, strings of come and spit spilling out from the corners. 

He comes on Stiles's chest. Splatters there, hot, and Stiles makes a sleepy, satisfied noise. Reaches up to scratch at the curve of his stomach. Eyelashes fluttering a little, dark shadows against the curve of his cheek, and Derek chokes back a sob. Stiles's own cock has gone half-hard between his thighs, and Derek runs two fingers over the damp slit, thinks about - 

John yells up, again, and Derek - Derek tries not to _think_. He lets the panic take him instead. Throws on the jeans he left on Stiles's floor and runs down the stairs pellmell, hoping maybe John won't notice he's out of breath.

"Stiles fell asleep," he announces, and John raises his eyebrows. "Think we practiced a little too hard."

John shrugs. Takes another bite of his taco. "Then we should probably let him sleep. He's a growing boy."

"Eventually," Derek says. "Probably." Hopefully. And John chuckles like Derek was making a joke, when really - he's not, oh. It has to happen sometime, doesn't it? As much as Derek likes being able to hold Stiles beneath him, to hold him down with one arm, he looks forward to the day when he can't.

Derek goes home after dinner. Thinks about Stiles waking up later, licking around his mouth, finding that handful of Derek's cooling, sticky come, and he - he has to jerk off again, actually. Fuck.

| | 

Derek sees Stiles in the hall the next day. When they make eye contact Stiles goes pink, and ducks his head. One hand reaching up to briefly press between his collarbones.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Saucery was probably like WAIT IS THIS THE THUMBSUCKING FIC? but really - it was a fakeout. An evil, sexy fakeout.
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> On that note, Jackson/Stiles with thumbsucking? *gauges interest*
> 
> because lets face it. if you don't think Stiles has an oral fixation, have we been watching the same show?


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes Derek has the best ideas.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sweet baby Jesus this doesn't get any less fucked up
> 
> Particularly since I just brought the sweet baby Jesus into it. Sorry, Jesus. I'm sure you didn't want to see this. You're underage, and not in the fun way. 
> 
> Okay I have to go before I incriminate myself
> 
> I mean

The thing about not-fucking Stiles is that it's sort of starting to drive Derek crazy.

It's not a big deal. It shouldn't be a problem. And it's not - it's not a _problem_ , it just - it isn't happening now, is all. Derek keeps telling himself, _one day_. They have time. They have all the time in the world. It's just not in Derek's nature to be patient, to wait for what he wants instead of taking it, taking it _now_ , because he knows he can have it. Could have it. 

But he doesn't want to hurt Stiles. He hurts him enough already, being bigger and stronger - pushing him against things, biting too hard, wanting too much. He won't _hurt_ him, not like that. Even if Stiles ever forgave him, Derek couldn't forgive himself. He's drawn towards destruction, it follows him - he's _good_ at it. He won't encourage it. Not like this.

So he thinks about it - he thinks about it a _lot_ \- but he doesn't let himself want it. Not the way he wants Stiles, or the way he allows himself to want other things. It's a fantasy. An assurance, too. There's something almost - good about it, that way. Even though Derek can't _now_ , he'll be able to someday. He's waiting for Stiles, and Stiles is waiting for him.

Derek's a teenage boy. He thinks about it in the shower sometimes, but mostly in bed. Late at night, or on lazy Saturday mornings, when he can indulge himself. Roll over, take a nap, do it again an hour later. He's indulging tonight - thinking about when Stiles will be ready, when Derek can put his fingers up inside of Stiles, and he'll still be tight - he'll still clench up, still shiver, clamped down around Derek until he's the one who can't move, has to lick around his fingers until Stiles calms down, and lets him _in_ , and up, deeper than Derek has gone before - but he can slide in, slow, Stiles's body making a place for him, not shoved out of the way, no longer inexorable but yielding, a good yield, and Stiles looking up at him, big dumb eyes and wide-open mouth, begging - and Derek thinks that he wants Stiles on his back the next time he sees him, wants to blow him, wet and messy, and then slide his own cock in between Stiles's legs with a handful of come to smooth the way. A facsimile, a fake, and not even a good one, he thinks, but it'll get Stiles hard again, easy, and Stiles - 

Stiles could fuck _him_.

The idea hits like a brick to the back of the neck. He comes almost instantly and ends up just lying there, little aftershocks running all up and down his body, and his hand still curled around his cock. He takes a deep breath, somehow almost appalled - At himself? At the idea? At being so fucking stupid for not realizing earlier? 

Stiles is still growing - every part of him, cock too, and it's not that he _couldn't_ hurt Derek so much as it seems unlikely. Derek is over six feet tall now, broader than he was even a year ago. Broader than Peter, as big as John. A full-grown man, everywhere, and Stiles is - not. Still short, still a lot like a child, baby fat and curved, hairless nearly everywhere. He nearly goes out of his mind when Derek fingers him, when Derek even thinks about fucking him. When he tries to skirt that edge.

But Derek could take Stiles fucking him. It seems so obvious, now, _so obvious_. Derek can't believe he didn't think of it before.

| |

He chooses one of the nights John isn't around, and sneaks into Stiles's room. There's a tree outside just close enough to give Derek a boost into the window - far enough to make it tricky, and just high enough to make him a little afraid. Forgetting the injuries he'd get falling from the tree, getting caught climbing into Stiles's room in the middle of the night is not going to endear him to John; Derek can figure out that much.

Stiles sleeps through the whole thing. Is doing that weird wheezing thing that means his allergies have been acting up, but he's forgotten to take his meds again. He'd probably forget his own head if it wasn't attached. Derek's mom used to say that, but he believes it about Stiles.

He doesn't even have to peel back the covers. Stiles has kicked them off, a single twist of them around his hips, and that's easy enough to shove aside. Derek puts one hand on the curve of Stiles's stomach - sleep-warmed, and so much softer for it, it seems. Stiles, for the most part, seems entirely unalarmed by someone being in his bed. So stupidly trusting, even when he was unconscious. Like sleeping in his bed isn't the most vulnerable he could ever be.

"Der'k?" he says, but it comes out a little muffled. Sleepy. Stiles's eyelids barely even fluttering. Still dreaming, maybe.

"Hey," Derek whispers. Bending down to press a kiss to Stiles's mouth, and Stiles isn't awake enough to even try and kiss back. Quiet, even though there isn't anyone around. No one to wake up besides Stiles.

He's so sweet. He's so _trusting_ , he always has been. From the first moment Derek touched him. 

"Mmph," Stiles mutters, a little noise of protest, and Derek shoves a pillow under his arm. Watches Stiles cuddle up to it before turning to the top drawer of Stiles's little bedside table. He thought about doing it at home, but then having to drive over to Stiles, climb up the tree into his room - easier to just do it here.

He toes off his sneakers and peels off his clothes. Puts them in a neat pile on the floor, if he has to grab them and run later. Gets back on to the bed and kneels by Stiles's side. 

The prep's not hard. Derek did this earlier today already - couldn't help himself, couldn't stop thinking about it, and while he's not quite past discomfort he's starting to see a little of the attraction - so he's still a little loose. Slips two fingers into himself, slicked up, and pushes. Tries to pull himself open. He's impatient, and that's okay when it's him. Okay if the feeling makes him growl and shiver in turns. He slips three fingers in, shoves them deep, _shoves_ , shakes the bed a bit, and Stiles makes another little snuffling sound. 

Wipes his hands on the sheets, and begins to pull at the waistband of Stiles's boxers. Give Stiles a little push onto his back, and he goes, easy, like a little kid, so Derek can slide his boxers down; down, tangled around his knees. One of his hands still tucked under the pillow, the other curled down across his stomach, scratching at the sparse little hairs there.

It's a pretty picture - it's a _gorgeous_ picture, Stiles lying there, and Derek already knows what he'd like to do about it - so he shoves that hand out of the way and settles on stop of Stiles's hips, towards his waist. Sitting forward a little, Stiles's dick rubbing against the backside of him. Hard but mindless, mostly asleep, and Derek reaches back to hold Stiles's cock in his hand. Stroke it a little. Fatten it up. 

Stiles's hips jerk, shove, push up at him. Still unconscious. Mindless. His eyes circle under his lids. Tiny grunts, whispery mmhhms falling from Stiles's mouth, the edge of his tongue sticking out as Derek tries to get Stiles inside of him, missing by increments, the head of Stiles's cock rubbing against Derek's wet opening but not _in_. Catching just the edge, and it might be driving Derek a little mad.

Stiles is starting to wake up now, blinking, eyes more often open than closed, until they finally _snap_ , pop right open, the pupils big as saucers in the dark, and his hands fly up towards Derek - pulling in at this hip, shoving at his chest. Confused.

"What-" Stiles gasps, and Derek grins. A full grin, all his canines, and a bright flash in the darkness. It might make Stiles a little harder. Difficult to tell. 

"Stiles," Derek says, calm, and even, and quiet, but Stiles stares up at him anyway. " _Stiles_ ," and he tries again, sets the head of Stiles's cock against the wet opening - smeared more, now, with Stiles's precome - and Stiles loses it a little, then. 

"Derek," he says - he _sobs_ , oh god, he has tears in the corner of his eyes, hips slamming up, dick jumping in Derek's hand, and Derek doesn't want to stop, or slow down. Doesn't want to comfort him. He's just - impatient. He wants Stiles in him, he wants Stiles in him _now_. Stiles isn't going to hurt him. He's ready. He's good.

"Just - Stiles, _Stiles_ , be still," and Derek puts his other arm across Stiles's shoulders. Set. Like an iron bar. 

And this time when Stiles thrusts up, shrieks - it goes in. Hard. It takes Derek by surprise. Makes him grunt. Makes him want to set his teeth in Stiles's neck and never let go. 

"Oh," Stiles says, "oh, Derek, Derek, _fuck_ , whatareyoudoing," words spilling out, and his face goes flushed. Sweet. 

Derek tries to shift - forward, and then down. Trying it out. Wincing, and then groaning, when Stiles thrusts up. Like he's being torn into. 

"Don't _move_ ," he growls, and Stiles makes a gulpy little hiccough.

"When _can_ I move?" half-way to a whine, a weak one, but Derek laughs, a little, because the thing is, he wants it. He wants this. Stiles fucking him. He aches for it, Stiles's dick. So he gives himself a minute - a second, really - just to let himself breathe, to get his whole body to ease up. To look down at Stiles and feel that _spark_.

"Okay," Derek says. Puts his hands on Stiles's shoulders. Gentle. "Okay," he says, and settles down on his knees. Letting Stiles just the much further inside of him.

Stiles _freaks_. Loses it, loses everything, writhing around like a fever, like he doesn't know which way is up. Humping Derek, hips jerking up like he's never going to get another chance at it, and his breath starts coming in gasps, big long gasps, all inhale and no exhale, until Derek thinks he might call it hyperventilating. A panic attack. Bed in a frenzy of squeaks and slams, obvious, the most obvious thing they've ever done, and Derek feels the muscles in his thighs bunch up. Looks down at Stiles's sweet little face, all screwed up in concentration and torment, and oh, that's not going to work.

Derek lifts up and leans down, Stiles slipping out of him, and cuts off Stiles's whine with the press of his forearm against Stiles's throat. 

" _Derek_ ," Stiles gasps, "don't, Derek, why -" and Derek doesn't know, doesn't know, can't _think_ \- 

"Here," he grunts, "like -" and shoves the pillow behind Stiles, puts his hands on Stiles's shoulders and _pushes_ , so Stiles is half-sitting, and Derek is curled up over him, leaning down until he can kiss Stiles easily. Let his tongue stoke over Stiles's, his thumbs at the corner of Stiles's eyes. 

"Good?" Stiles asks, and Derek snorts because - "I mean, good, yes, great, can -" and Derek shifts so Stiles can slide back in again, back up. Easier this time, now that Derek already knows the shape of him. Knows the way Stiles moves, _wants_ to move inside Derek, and now when Stiles thrusts up Derek can ride it out. Like a wave. Not exactly a rhythm, but something Derek is going to count on all the same.

"Fuck," Stiles says, "oh fuck," in his small little voice, fingers pushing into Derek's hips hard enough to bruise, pleasant, _pointed_ , and Derek rocks back and forth while Stiles grasps at him, shakes. 

It's wonderful. It's wonderful, it's perfect, on top of Stiles like this. The way Stiles is _doing_ something to him on the inside, like he's loosening up and tightening all once, rippling around Stiles like he wants to pull him in. The base of his spine getting more and more tense. Something knotting in the pit of his stomach. Stiles pinned beneath him, his legs kicking out, heels dragging against the sheets, and Derek doesn't want it to end. Not yet.

"Come on," he growls, "Stiles, come _on_ ," jerking himself off, desperate, desperate to come on Stiles's dick - fuck, he wants that, he wants it so bad, and Stiles is beyond wanting it, doesn't know what he wants, just can't stop _moving_ , thrusting, and grabbing at every bit of Derek he can reach, hands everywhere because Derek is too busy trying to keep Stiles pinned down to worry about the collateral damage. 

When he comes it doesn't feel like it normally does. Feels deeper. Caught in the center of him. Tangled. It catches Derek off-guard - punches him in the gut - and he slumps forward. Lets his forehead rest on Stiles's shoulder and digs his teeth in, not a bite so much as a _set_ , because he doesn't feel like ever letting go.

He knows when Stiles comes inside him. Thrusts up and spurts, shoves his dick as deep as he can get it, quick and shallow, shove shove _shove_ , and Derek has to pull back to watch Stiles's face. Wouldn't miss that for anything.

" _Derek_ ," one more time, somewhere between a sob and a prayer, between Derek here and the Derek who lives in Stiles's head, and - and Derek has to get off Stiles. Let him catch his breath. Wipes the hand of his own come onto the sheets, and feels Stiles's slowly run out of him.

Stiles is silent next to him. Stunned, Derek thinks, like a deer in headlights. Derek shifts onto his side, ignoring the twinge. Presses a kiss to Stiles's temple and scrapes his nails through Stiles's hair. Speeds his breathing up a little, so they match, and he feels something in himself quiet. Die. Some kind of doubt, maybe. Some worry. 

"Okay?" he asks, and Stiles nods. Keeps nodding, for a minute, until he lets his head fall back on the pillow like a puppet with cut strings. 

"Okay."

"Good." And he goes back to pressing his face against Stiles's. He hurts, but only a little. In a removed way. Like maybe he'd be bruised later, if that was some place he could check for a bruise. He likes it. 

A minute later Stiles pops up like a jack-in-the-box, boxers still tangled around his feet, and says, in a scandalized whisper, "my _Dad_!" 

Disregarding Stiles thought of that twenty minutes too late, at least -- 

"He's on overnight tonight," Derek says, hand on Stiles's back, "it's Tuesday, remember?" and Stiles relaxes almost instantly. Slumps back against Derek like a pile of so many bones. 

"Jesus," he says. "Jesus _Christ_ , I can't believe you _did_ that, are you _crazy_ -" back to babbling, finally, back to normal, and Derek starts to tune him out. Lets him whine, and put his flushed face into Derek's neck, and against Derek's leg Stiles's dick twitches, a little. 

"Wanna go again?" Derek asks. They could. Stiles flushes _more_ , squirms, an obvious affirmative, and Derek smirks. He's still loose, wet inside with Stiles's come, and he wants Stiles's fingers there, wants the flush to come over his face when he sees what he's done. 

| |

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is entirely porn. the next chapter is pretty exclusively plot. I am a fickle woman.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which actions have consequences, and not always the ones you expect.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this came together _really_ quickly. hopefully the next chapter soon? not to jinx everything.

Stiles still turns hot whenever he thinks about Derek riding him. Whenever he thinks about _fucking_ Derek, oh Jesus, he goes from never thinking about it to thinking about it all the time, to wanting to _do_ it all the time, and the worst part, the best part, the best-worst part is that Derek lets him. Derek indulges him - Stiles has to call it an indulgence, because he doesn't think Derek particularly likes it. He doesn't even come, sometimes; Stiles doesn't have the stamina, he thinks, blushes, and wants it to be with something like shame, but it's - it's so _hot_ , really, and Derek doesn't seem like he minds. Just smirks, and slides back up Stiles's body, pushing his cock into Stiles's mouth with Stiles's come slowly smearing all over them both. They both recover so quickly, anyway. What does it matter if it's not at the same time?

Which isn't to say that Stiles is entirely _satisfied_ , that he doesn't want Derek to fuck him because he does, oh man, does he _ever_ , but at the same time he realizes it's a monumentally bad idea. He still - sometimes when Derek uses his fingers, Stiles practically faints, okay, he _faints_ , he _loses consciousness_ , to the point where Derek can actually come in Stiles's _mouth_ and Stiles isn't even aware, really, so - yeah. He's pretty sure getting fucked would actually break him, would break him in _half_ and leave shattered come-covered little pieces. Which is - awful, right, awful. It would be terrible and he would never recover and Derek would never recover and his dad would probably die of shock, so, an all around no. 

So he does what any boy his age with internet access would. 

He Googles for a solution.

Which, okay, wow, TRAUMATIZING, he sees why his dad tried to put NetNanny on the computer he was younger, there are some thing no impressionable young mind should never see. Stiles's mind is supremely impressionable, okay, he is going to have weird twisted maybe-nightmare dreams for the next week, great. 

But he also sort of finds what he's looking for. Apparently, being too small is not exactly an uncommon problem. Stiles assumes it's generally in a 'bigger guy, littler guy' way or even like 'normal sized guy, guy with a _gigantic_ dick' way rather than a 'man-sized teenager, child-sized teenager' sort of way, but he's definitely not the only person in this world looking for that reason, which - shudder, okay, back to the solution. 

Besides time and patience and lots of lube - totally have all those, if Derek spends an hour rimming Stiles again it will honestly be _too soon_ \- there are, uhm, butt plugs. Or whatever. Like a whole series of them, from small to genuinely dick-sized, to get him loosened up, to stretch him more and more, until he - until he could, he probably could, even though he's like, kind of too small. Theoretically. He could stretch. He could be stretched out, and held open, and Derek could slide in, and even though - even though Stiles _wants_ that, it still seems totally wrong, having a piece of plastic - or silicon, or whatever - where Derek should be first.

So. No. He decides no. He'll wait for that growth spurt, and eat his vegetables - and make his dad eat his vegetables, god, the man is going to give himself a heart attack - and if he hits like, who knows, seventeen, and still no progress, then maybe. Plan B. 

| |

Jackson Whittemore is an asshole.

Everyone knows this. It's not news. Even though Jackson's only a freshman he's already on the lacrosse team, and convinced he's hot shit because of it. Which isn't helped by the fact that he looks like a male model, has an equally attractive freshman girlfriend, and drives a car nicer than most people will ever be able to afford. He's an asshole but it looks _good_ on him, so people let him get away with it. Fuck, then encourage it.

And Derek might be okay with that if Jackson weren't such a _dick_ to Stiles. 

He gets it, he does. He's in high school, he's a guy, he knows how this works . It's one thing for a friend to have your back, but he can't step in all the time. He can't make someone step _off_.

So he lets it happen. He watches it happen, sometimes, and sometimes he won't because he doesn't think he can stand it - he has to be elsewhere, turns it into Schrödinger's bullying: maybe Stiles is being pushed around but maybe he's not, and better a maybe than Derek breaking Jackson's chiseled face.

Until the day he does, of course. Until the day Jackson goes way too fucking far. Everyone know it too, everyone _knows_ Jackson goes too far - watches it happen - watches Stiles's face hit the locker, hears the _crack_ , sickening, bone on steel, and where everyone else is paralyzed by horror, by what they think has already happened, Derek is _enraged_.

It's the most out of control he's felt in his whole life. The most free. Because what else could possibly matter if Stiles were hurt? What wouldn't he do?

He almost fucks up. He knows that. He did fuck up, really. It was stupid, to do that in front of everyone. To lose his temper. Jackson's not the type to tell if no one sees - would love to walk around with a black eye, actually. Let everyone assume he's a badass. Derek thinks about making that his next step. Finding Jackson after lacrosse practice and beating the shit out of him. One black eye. A few good punches to the kidneys. 

But he slams Jackson up against the locker instead. Puts a bruise on his face and cuts into the back of his neck. Derek gets blood under his fingernails, and spends a half-hour picking it out under the watchful eye of the office temp until Peter gets there. He really feels like scraping it out with his teeth.

When they're finally in to see the principal, Derek mostly tunes them out. Jackson's hurt, sure, but he hurt Stiles first. He hurt Stiles _more_. The sound Stiles's head made when it hit the metal - he could have gotten really hurt, he could have died.

There's a moment of silence before Derek realizes he said that out loud.

Jesus. Stiles really is rubbing off on him.

"We realize," Principal Ross says, not unkindly, and Derek might not be too adept at reading other people, but somehow he said something right. "We're not saying Jackson isn't also in trouble, Derek. Just that your reaction might not have been the most appropriate way to handle the situation."

"It was a reaction," Derek says. Floundering. "I didn't-" He can feel Peter looking at him from the corner of his eye. "It was... upsetting."

He goes back to tuning them out after that. The rest goes quickly, a combination of lecture and bargaining, and while the fire might have made Peter physically frail, emotionally distant, his mind is still as sharp as ever. Derek walks out of the office very nearly a free man - a few required sessions with the school counselor, a promise to consider his handling of further bullying situations, and agreeing to a two days' suspension if Jackson gets the same. 

Not that academic repercussions were Derek's real concern. What does _John_ think about it, is the question. John has already picked up Stiles and left, and something in Derek's stomach curls up at that. Is it good or bad that John doesn't want to talk right this second? Did he leaves because Stiles needs to be home, or because he doesn't want to see Derek? Because Derek could be _done_. He knows that. He's a juvenile offender John took into his home because John though he didn't deserve prison. Maybe he was wrong about that. Maybe Derek really is the animal everyone always thought he was. He remembers the way John watched him those first few weeks - not judgmental, exactly, but _careful_. Derek's always pushed his luck. From the very start, he pushed.

Stiles calls him later that night. Voice hushed, and worried, and Derek tries to swallow around the knot of tension in his chest. What if this is all they'll have? Phone calls. Hiding, even more than before. 

"I don't think he's angry," Stiles says. "Not really angry, I mean, mostly that parental 'I'm disappointed in you' angry, not 'you have done something _wrong_ , Genim Stilinkski' angry."

"He's not angry at _you_ ," Derek says back, harsh, and for a moment Stiles doesn't say anything.

"I don't think he's angry at you either. I think he's - he might be mad at himself, actually. I mean, mad at Jackson, duh, and at the school, but I think also a little at himself. He's my dad, you know. He's supposed to take care of this stuff."

John's not around all the time. Derek _is_. If anyone - 

"When you come over tomorrow you're going to get a Lecture," Stiles announces. "So brace yourself. Dad doesn't really do long-winded, but he's pretty good with the emotional guilt-trips, so."

John doesn't need to bother. Derek does well enough with himself.

| | 

It turns out Stiles is right. John isn't angry. Disappointed, maybe. Even a little subtly threatening about Derek's future actions, and their consequences, but not _angry_. Maybe even a little pleases. No love lost for Jackson Whittemore, and Derek is certainly okay with that.

Still. Derek has to be careful. He has to stop fucking up. One time - one time it _will_ be the last time, it will be the too-far time, and he doesn't - he doesn't know what he would do then. Derek has things to lose, now. So much more to lose.

| |

By the time Derek is back in school after his suspension, the rumors are everywhere.

It's common knowledge that Derek burned down Hale House a few years ago, and pretty common knowledge that the Sheriff took him under his wing. That Derek and Stiles are like brothers. But Derek nearly went _ballistic_ , and that's not exactly his usual way of doing things. Derek is quiet, and reserved, and a little cruel, but rarely out of control. It's strange. People talk about things that are strange. And unfortunately, some of the rumors are hitting a little too close to home. Derek can only think of one way to put them to bed.

Kate Argent usually hangs out around the bleachers during lunch. She's smoking a cigarette in full view of the field, like she's daring someone to come over and tell her to throw it out. Derek almost wants to see what would happen. Kate is a legend nearly the same way Derek is. Something of a cautionary tale.

"I need you to go out with me," Derek says, before anything else, and Kate's eyebrows fly up. 

She takes another drag of her cigarette before she answers. "I don't need a boyfriend."

"I don't want a girlfriend."

Her eyes narrow. "This have something to do with that kid you beat up the other day? Protecting your _boy_ friend?"

"That's what people are saying."

"Kind of the point, huh," she says, all faux-sympathetic. "That why you're asking?"

"You're pretty. A little crazy."

"Thanks, cupcake," she sasses back, and that's exactly why he's asking her.

"Can you see me dating Caroline?" he asks. The head cheerleader and the lacrosse captain is, in theory, a no-brainer, but Caroline is a vapid bitch who'd probably faint if Derek so much as looked at her. "Any of the other cheerleaders? You make sense."

"In a weird, bizarro world way, sure. I get it. Now why would I want to help you?"

Derek shrugs. "Piss off your parents?" And your older brother, he nearly says, but the relationship between Chris 'Perfect Child' Argent and Kate 'Beautiful Fuck-Up' Argent is a roller coaster no one has ever been able to really predict.

The smile she gives him is blinding. Sharp. If Derek didn't have Stiles, who knows. "At least you did your homework. Tell you what. Throw in the use of your shiny, shiny car now and again, and we have a deal."

"Deal," he says, and tries not to react when she leans over to kiss his cheek.

"Guess you better give me a ride home this afternoon, sweetcheeks," she coos. "Make it all official."

| |

He dates her a few weeks. Just long enough to make an impression, not long enough for any rumors to get back to John. Derek can't decide if that would have been more helpful or harmful in the long run. Too many variables. Kate has the decency not to date anyone else right away, and he doesn't talk about her in the locker room. 

Stiles spends most of the month pissed at him. _Really_ pissed, which is - new. Unpleasant. Stiles can be sullen, and he certainly likes to pout, but it doesn't last. He does it for attention. This isn't like that. Derek has to sneak into his room at night, just to see him. To watch him sleep.

Stiles wakes up a few times. Calls him a stalker, and ignores him until Derek leaves. Two weeks in Derek climbs into bed with him. Curled up on top of the covers. Stiles doesn't kick him out, which Derek takes to mean they're more or less okay.

So everybody wins.

| |

Derek knows he's forgiven when Stiles takes him into the woods, to a pile of brush he's collected. Drag marks in the dirt from where the wood was too heavy for Stiles to lift by himself.

They don't have any supplies, but Derek holds Stiles in his lap, face to face. Jerks him off. Warmth of the fire on Stiles's back, and the blaze reflecting in Derek's eyes. 

"Don't do that again," Stiles says, after. "I don't care about rumors, okay, high school is full of rumors, and everyone knows most of them aren't true, so - " He ducks his head. Bites his bottom lip, and Derek feels - he knows he had to do it, he did, sometimes you have to be proactive and nip this shit in the bud, but he didn't mean to hurt Stiles while he did it. "So don't do that."

"Okay," Derek agrees. He's graduating next year, anyway. He won't be around to be gossiped about for much longer.

"Okay," Stiles repeats. Like a promise. Like all the promises Derek wants to make. Will make, someday. When he thinks Stiles can hear them.

| |


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Derek isn't like other people.
> 
> But then again, neither is Stiles.

“Do you ever regret it?" Stiles asks one day. "You know. Burning down the house?”

It's a moment before Derek answers. Not because he has to think about it, but because he wants to make sure Stiles is actually paying attention. "It's the best thing I ever did. It got me you," and Stiles makes a face at him, because, yeah, sappy, but not untrue, as far as Derek can tell. Derek has thought about it before: what his life would be like. It would have been more straightforward. Less complicated, less juvenile offender-y, less filled with _rage issues_ \- but maybe it wouldn't have had Stiles. Would Derek have noticed him, otherwise? Awkward and puppy-faced and loud, but not generally in a way that made you _want_ to pay attention. 

"Best thing I ever did," Derek says again, and dodges when Stiles tries to tackle him.

"Are you naturally ninja-like, or did you hone your skills in some dark underground sewer?"

"Naturally awesome," Derek says, straight-faced, "in all ways," and lets Stiles sweep him off his feet.

| | 

It's a random day when it finally happens. A Tuesday with nothing special about it: they have school, then lacrosse practice, then dinner with John. Stiles is doing most of the cooking, and Derek sets the table in between stealing bits of food from the pan while Stiles pretends not to notice. 

Derek is reaching under Stiles's arm for another piece of chicken when he realizes - he's looking at Stiles's ear. Directly at Stiles's ear. No looking down. No bending down. Stiles isn't standing on the steps, grinning down at him, or stretched up on his tiptoes. He can't see the top of Stiles's head.

Derek can't _help_ it.

"Whoa," he says, and John turns around to look at him.

"Whoa?" he echoes, chuckling, and Stiles raises an eyebrow. Both eyebrows, really, but one twitches a little more, so Derek is pretty sure what the intended effect was. "What did _I_ miss?"

"Stiles," Derek says, when he recovers, "is _tall_."

There's a moment of silence while everyone digests this.

"Whoa!" Stiles says, and his eyes go wide. "I'm like - Dad, stand up!" and John dutifully gets to his feet. Smiles when he realizes he and Stiles are the same height - Stiles a little taller, even, and Derek is staring. He can't help _staring_. 

"Well, well," John muses, and grins. "When did that happen?"

"Overnight," Derek says, and he's only half-joking. He knows Stiles - knows him like the back of his hand, like the woods outside, knows every inch of him.

Nearly. Nearly every inch.

"Looks like you're a real boy after all, Pinocchio," John says. "No wonder you were looking better dressed lately. Your clothes actually come close to fitting."

Stiles sniffs. "Baggy is very in right now. Just be grateful my pants aren't hanging around my knees. Scott had an incident last week. Surprising no one."

Derek pulls a face that makes it very clear what he thinks of _that_ , and Stiles rolls his eyes.

"Okay Mr. Allergic-to-Shirts, don't start with me."

" _Children_ ," John says, drawing it out, and Derek and Stiles both turn back around. "I think something's burning."

"Shiiiiiit," Stiles squeaks, and wheels back around to the lightly smoking stir-fry. John rolls his eyes while Derek gives him a knowing look - safe in the knowledge there are still candy bars stashed in the front closet. 

"I dub thee - Szechuan style!” Stiles announces, and sets the pan on the table. "Because it's definitely not burnt. At all."

"I don't think that word means what you think it means."

"I also added chiles!" Stiles continues, brightly, and John makes a face. He'll probably have heartburn all night, even if he doesn't want to admit it. 

Later, as they're scraping the leftovers into the garbage, Stiles knocks his hip against Derek's and waggles his eyebrows. "Bad, huh? Not that _everything_ I make can be a culinary masterpiece-" 

Derek shrugs. "Had worse."

"That is _literally_ the worst non-answer ever. Or maybe the best. On a scale of non-answers, it's actually not entirely offensive..."

Derek takes the plate from Stiles's hand and sets it on the counter, careful. Presses Stiles up against the cabinets and marvels at the way their shoulders lock together. That he doesn't have to dip his head to kiss Stiles - can even tilt it up a little, let Stiles meet him for light fleeting kisses, sweet ones, and watch Stiles's pulse flutter,

How did Derek not _notice_?

"You think we can -?" Stiles starts, nervously, and Derek gets it. Stiles is tall now, but he's still smaller, still _slim_ , and they've waited so long it almost feels like a cruel fucking joke.

"We'll see," Derek says, and he can't quite help that it sounds more like a threat than a promise.

"I'll text you," Stiles promises. Hands wringing in the belt loops of Derek's jeans. "If Dad gets an overnight, or something. Or we can - "

"No," because Derek knows what Stiles was going to say next - that they could do it in the woods, or in the car, or anywhere else they could find a stolen hour. And not only does Derek want more than that, but Stiles _deserves_ more than that. The least he deserves is a fucking bed. Derek can't give him much else. "Text me," he insists. "Okay?"

Stiles eyes dart toward the hallway that leads to John's office. "Okay," he agrees, and licks his lips. "Tonight, uh - tonight I'm going to use - use my fingers. And think about it," he finishes, meek as a church mouse, like what he's said hasn't just driven Derek _crazy_. 

" _Stiles_ ," it's like he's being strangled, Jesus, like someone just punched him in the throat. "Why would you-" He steps back, breathing hard, so hard, like he's just run a mile, and he fumbles for the keys in his pocket. "Text me," he repeats, and resists the urge to _touch_ , fuck, sixty seconds ago they were doing the dishes, how does this always happen

"I'll think about you," so earnest Derek thinks about dropping to his knees, and it's such a fantastic, horrible idea Derek has to get away _now_. 

Just after - just after Derek puts one hand over Stiles's mouth, and yanks the collar of Stiles's shirt aside to bite. He catches Stiles squeal, mostly, and watches the faint sheen of tears spring to his eyes with something like awe. His teeth leave pale little indents, the skin around them gone red, and if Derek's lucky there will be a bruise tomorrow, or the next day. Something to press his fingers into.

| |

Derek isn't exactly like other people.

Stiles doesn't say that because he's in love with him, or whatever. He's not like _Scott_ , who thinks Allison hung the freaking moon, or was the first girl to ever let a guy under her bra. Derek _isn't like other people_. Sometimes he's not exactly _sane_.

But only sometimes, is the thing. It's not like he goes around talking in riddles or rhymes or wearing a purple and green suit and face makeup. The crazy is subtler. Only pops up now and again, like a bad habit. 

Like now, for example.

"I came over yesterday," Derek says from where he's lying on Stiles's bed. Sulking. "But you were with McCall." 

The tone of his voice is not pleased. 

And look, Stiles gets it. He wouldn't like it if Derek spent time with other people either. It's not Stiles's fault he has friends and Derek doesn't - which, wow, Derek is probably the only person Stiles is ever going to be able to lord that over, ever - but he's not going to drop Scott just to get on Derek's dick. Scott is his best friend. Practically a brother. Scott is always going to be in Stiles's life, and even though Scott and Derek hate each other, like, cats-and-dogs hate each other, they both need to get used to it.

"Don't be such a jealous weirdo," Stiles says, and Derek makes a face. He's still glowering at the ceiling when Stiles crawls on top of him, flyaway elbows and knees. “I still like you best,” he whispers, and Derek slips his hand just under the back of Stiles’ shirt. It calms Derek down when they touch. And Stiles likes to be petted, really. Loved. All that affection, and attention, because the funny thing about having ADHD is that even though Stiles can't give it to anyone else he wants it _all the time_. And even when Derek looks at him like he's nuts, he knows Derek loves him best of all. Imprinted, like a duckling. Only with sex.

"You'd better," Derek says. And the thing is, he means it. He means it a different way than most people do.

"I'll always like you best," Stiles whispers again. Like a secret, the truest secret there ever was. It's better for everyone that way, anyway.

| |

The thing is, in his own way, Stiles is probably equally crazy. It's obviously also subtle, and maybe 'crazy' isn't exactly the right kind of label, but Stiles is - Stiles is _unusual_ , and in a way that works out just fine with Derek's particular brand of unusual, and that's - that's also weird, right? Two people, two totally random people, falling in together like this. He'd call it love, but it's not like any love story he's ever heard of. Seventeen year old boys aren't supposed to sleep with thirteen year old boys - that is like, the bad touch, okay, and Stiles was warned about that constantly throughout his childhood, like, _constantly_ , and his life is full of so much bad touch it's ironic verging on ludicrous. The stuff they do is weird, and wrong, and the weirdest wrongest part about it is how much Stiles wants it, how much _more_ Stiles wants.

And they're not like normal couples either. They don't _talk_. Like, yes, okay, Stiles is a talker, sure. He'll say anything and nothing if you'll let him, but Derek doesn't talk at all. They don't talk about sex, as much as they have of it. They don't talk about the future, or the past. They don't talk about Derek's family, or Stiles's mom. They talk about sports and school if anything at all. When they have a moment alone it's not for heart to hearts. Mouth to mouth, maybe, but that's a way to keep secrets, not tell them.

Add in the part where Derek once burned down a house and the fact he and Stiles now spend a significant portion of their time burning anything they can get their hands on, usually fucking right next to it, well, it's probably game over for sanity. 

Stiles tries to look it up sometimes. It's what he does when he's at loose ends - he researches, he wants to _know_ , or pretend he does. He needs to figure it out - what it means that he and Derek are so crazy for Cocoa Puffs together. He gets a lot of stuff about soul mates, a lot of terrible B-movies, a lot about serial killers, and a decently alarming amount of overlap between all three. When he tries to dive into the psychobabble, he finds this thing called folie simultanée: madness, a shared madness, when two people are "morbidly predisposed" - great phrase, he'd like that on his tombstone, please - to delusional psychosis trigger symptoms in each other. Or basically, as far as Stiles can parse out, sometimes two people with just the right kind of crazy in their heads come together and strike a spark of even bigger crazy they bring to life. Sounds kinda poetic, but then probably everything does in French. 

And, you know, okay, psychosis, _maybe_ , Stiles is willing to admit they're not entirely right upstairs, but delusional? Stiles isn't a psychiatrist, or anything, but he had to see a few after his mom died and he kept having panic attacks, so he knows - he knows how they think, a little. And delusional means you don't know what you're doing. It means you think you're not crazy, and even though they don't talk about it, Stiles is pretty sure Derek knows he's not all there upstairs too. Or that their upstairs is structured a little differently, if you know what Stiles means. 

Is it madness if you know you're mad? Are they delusions, really, if you're know they're weird? If you realize that if anyone else knew they'd look at you like you had two heads?

Who the fuck knows.

So maybe there isn't a word for it. Maybe it's just who they are. Or maybe all people are really this fucked up, under their normal boring everyday stuff. Maybe everyone has someone they're a little bit crazy for. 

| |

The next time Derek has the chance to strip Stiles he looks over him carefully. The lengths of his shins and the muscles in his stomach. The changes wrought by time, and lacrosse practice. The trail of hair below Stiles's belly button; Derek puts his mouth to it, and follows it down. Licks the head of Stiles's cock while he squirms.

"D-don't," Stiles protests, "no, _don't_ , I can't - you Neanderthal, stop it, I have _plans_ ,"and Stiles tries to squeeze Derek in between his legs just as hard as Derek is trying to pry them open. "Seriously, don't make me start the biting game," Stiles threatens, pinking at the idea because it always ends badly - amazingly, _terribly_ \- teeth marks and bruises and blood, once, because everything has to be a competition and everything always escalates in the quickest most frightening of ways. 

"Fine," Derek huffs, and bites just above Stiles's hipbone instead, playing with fire, and sucking a little at the mark he leaves. Running his tongue over his teeth. "Fine, what--" and Stiles drags him up by his hair, eager, kissing open-mouthed and open-hearted, laying himself out for Derek, and what does it matter, any of it, the specifics, when he has Stiles? 

"Normally I'd be all over us Playing Doctor, but your fascination with my elbows was actually starting to weird me out a little," Stiles explains, and Derek pulls back to flick his ear. "Ow! Uhm, Nurse?" while Derek rolls his eyes. Glares a little when Stiles pets his head.

"We _could_ get to the part of the evening where you play proctologist!" and Derek feels his gaze go hot, a little. "Like, a really dirty proctologist. Dad, uhm - Dad left a message on the machine? He's going to be out until late--" Or that's what Derek assumes Stiles says, mostly, because he throws himself fully on top of Stiles and knocks the wind out of him. He's a creature of habit, even if it sometimes feels like an emphasis on creature.

"How late?" he asks, he _growls_ , because he needs it to be enough time. He needs Stiles to not have jumped the gun, he needs John to be occupied, to be _gone_ -

"Hours," Stiles rasps, "hours, really, he has to go to Fremont for a suspect, or something --" and Derek is shoving his tongue down Stiles's throat, just like the first time. Like he's trying to get to get to the heart of him, the sweetest innermost part.

"You're just telling me this _now_?"

"You pounced, dude," Stiles gasps, "when you came in the door, okay, there is only so much talking to be done with a guy's tongue down your throat..." and Derek _growls_. "Don't be angry," Stiles pleads, little furrows in between his eyebrows, and how can he-? Derek isn't angry. He's a thousand things - frustrated, excited, impatient, worried, turned on - but not _angry_. 

"I'm not angry," he promises, and presses one his mouth right between Stiles's collarbones. Glad that Stiles has already stripped down to his undershirt. Fresh from lacrosse practice and the locker room showers. It's a good thing the varsity and junior team practices are staggered, or - or the consequences would be disastrous, really. "What's the opposite of angry?"

"Not... angry?" Stiles says, the corner of his mouth quirking. "Calm, maybe."

"Sure," Derek agrees. "That." 

"Peaceful," Stiles continues. Warming up to the subject. "Zen. Copacetic."

"Is this because I gave you a dictionary? Am I being _punished_?" and Stiles's smile is a small secret maybe-thing, a tease. Dimples so deep Derek could press his thumbs into them. God. "Not angry," he repeats, just in case, and nuzzles Stiles's neck. Rocks their hips together.

"Good. Because - I... yeah."

"Because I want to fuck you." Bald. A declaration of intent. "Because you want me to fuck you." A chance for Stiles to change his mind.

But Stiles doesn't. Wouldn't.

"Yeah," he says, screwing his eyes up tight, "Derek, please," and oh, this is going to wreck them _both_.

| |

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a _terrible_ tease, I know, but it's been a while since I last updated, and the next part of this has been giving me fits. I think I really jinxed myself when I posted two chapters so close to one another last time!


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finally.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wow, did this ever take too long. Who knew Stiles's virginity was going to be such a _fraught_ occasion?

"Please," Stiles says, he - he _mewls_ , begs, like some kind of little animal, all desperation and need. Hurting because he wants it so bad. 

It's not an unfamiliar feeling, the way Derek makes him want things. Stiles pretty much thinks of Derek as his very own sexual awakening. Not that Stiles hadn't jerked himself off, or seen porn, or thought about sex before Derek, duh, but there's something about whenever they're together, something about the things Derek does, or says, and - and makes Stiles _want_ that changed who he was. Or who he could have been. He can't imagine his life without Derek. Not any part of it. 

"Please," he says again, and Derek makes a pained noise, a sharp inhalation. A little like getting punched in the chest. He practically dives for the lube Stiles keeps in his bedside drawer. Derek looking so graceless would be funny any other time, but right now Stiles feels so desperate he's pretty sure nothing about this is funny.

He thinks about taking the lube from Derek's hands. Tries to decide between the lesser of two evils. When Derek does it he's harder than Stiles, hastier, toeing a line he really wants to destroy. He watches Stiles so closely, the way he whimpers, or twists, or uh, faints, because sometimes it - it hurts, but not because Derek hurts _him_. Like it feels so good it might as well hurt. Like it's too much for Stiles's tiny, unfocused brain to process and it just shorts out instead. Mostly, Stiles _likes_ when Derek does it. When it's Stiles's turn he feels so stupid, he feels - he feels pinned, like a butterfly trapped under glass, like embarrassment doesn't even begin to cover it. Which is dumb, because he knows Derek likes it - Stiles can _watch_ Derek get hard if he can get over the uber-embarrassment enough to open his eyes.

"Thought about doing that before you came over," Stiles confesses, and Derek's gaze goes hotter, Jesus, how does he _do_ that? It's like there should be lasers there, and Stiles has never entirely shaken the idea that Derek is some sort of cyborg with extremely fucked up programming. Something in him is mad, gone mad, furious, like he doesn't know what he wants, like there are a thousand yeses and noes and maybes and what-ifs flying around in his head, a thousand arguments and counterarguments, and in the end he doesn't give a _fuck_ , just goes with whatever that first instinct was and to hell with the rest. "But I thought maybe you'd want - " and yeah, that's more like it, Derek shoving his legs apart and settling between them. Mouth pulled back in a snarl. 

The first finger is easy, and Stiles's face goes hot. With embarrassment, or need, maybe. With want. It's all tied up together for him, no one without the other. Only a second before Derek slips in deeper, a slow rhythm, a good one, letting Stiles loosen around him while his face heats, heats, heats. His blood pooling in all the wrong places as Derek frigs him, like the vein in his neck is pulsing a thousand times a minute. And another finger, the one that's been circling, just tracing Stiles's skin - that's inside of Stiles too, only a little bit of a push, and it's - it's so strange, god. They've been waiting to be able to do this for so long, and Stiles keeps thinking, what if it's _bad_?

"All right?" Derek asks, and Stiles nods. Tries to smile but can't quite manage it, and curls one leg a bit more around Derek instead.

"Freaking myself out," even though it's - even though Stiles doesn't want Derek to stop. "Thinking too much."

Derek snorts. "That I can deal with," and he twists his fingers a little, just over Stiles's prostate. Sends a little jolt up Stiles's spine with each careful curl. 

It's not going to be, Stiles decides. Obviously. Sometimes he can't breathe when Derek looks at him, much less when Derek touches him. Stiles wants it, he does, he knows he does, but Jesus, what's going to happen when he _gets_ it? He thinks about the other times they've tried, that he's _fainted_. Derek finally - Derek finally _fucking_ him, oh Jesus, he shivers a little at the thought and clenches around Derek's fingers, hard.

"Three," Derek growls, and it's a chance to protest even if it's not a question. Fuck. Stiles grips the pillow beneath him, the sheets.

"Go for it," and _that's ___three - a shove, a bit of force while Stiles's eyes roll wildly around in his head. He's - Jesus, they've never managed three before, no more than two and the flat of Derek's tongue, but there's a give here, this time. Still tight, but an easier stretch. A forgiving one. A good burn.

"Oh fuck," Stiles says, and he feels a little faint all of a sudden. Like it's getting harder and harder to hold up his head. "Fuck, _Derek_ ," and Derek bites a little harder this time, just under Stiles's collarbone. "Sweet fuck," because he's, like - he think his knees might be going weak, but he's lying down, so it's actually a little difficult to tell. "You can just... keep doing that, that works for me," and Derek chuffs out a laugh. Adds more lube to his fingers and pushes in, deep, while Stiles squirms. Presses kisses to Derek's face while trying to fuck himself down on Derek's fingers, because the graze of Derek's fingertips across Stiles's prostate is not enough, okay, this is all tease and no follow-through, and it is ridiculous if you consider the hot press of Derek's dick to the inside of Stiles's thigh - which Stiles is considering, _obviously_ , he is full of consideration for Derek's dick being inside him.

"Stop?" Derek asks, because Stiles has just made a noise that probably should not have come out of a human. Ever.

"No," Stiles says, and shakes his head fervently. "Just too -" Too much, he thinks, so much. Just because they've been building towards this, just because Stiles wants it - his body still hasn't gotten the memo. It's still the first time. Jesus. It's still the _first time_ , Stiles thinks, and for a second he gets a little lightheaded. He grins up at Derek - a full-blown grin, beautiful, and Derek smiles down back at him even though he doesn't have a clue why. Keeps fucking him with his fingers, slow and hard, and when Derek's free hand goes for Stiles's cock, Stiles bats it away. 

"Don't," Stiles whines, even as Derek snarls, "seriously, don't," because he's sweaty and shaky and on the verge of coming, and if he does he might lose it - really lose it, go _faint_ , and he doesn't trust Derek enough to wait for him to wake back up again. Which - who else has problems like this in their relationships, Stiles would like to know. 

Stiles bites Derek's arm again. "Okay, come on, _my body is ready_ ," some thick ridiculous accent he's pulled from one of the day time soap operas his dad still watches sometimes, on auto-pilot, from when his mom used to put them on in the mornings just for the noise. "Time for the fucking, chop chop."

"It'd be easier for you on your stomach," but from the way Derek's gaze rests, heavy on his face, Stiles figures that's not what he wants. Derek is usually so good at taking what he wants that sometimes Stiles forgets he doesn't know how to _ask_.

"Like this," Stiles says, and when Derek's eyebrows furrow again he rolls his eyes. "You weren't on your back when you sleep-raped me, so don't start."

"Nearly logistically impossible," Derek says, and Stiles scoffs.

"I mean that you - you _liked_ it. That it hurt," and Stiles feels his face go hot again, because he liked it too. He likes when they leave marks on each other. He likes ownership, he likes knowing he had an _effect_ , which is kind of another reason they're big freaks. In high school ownership goes about as far as wearing your boyfriend's lacrosse jacket, not fucking him so hard he limps a little the next day. Probably. Possibly Stiles should not spend do much time wondering about other people's sex lives.

"I did," Derek admits, and he's staring directly at Stiles's face now, laser-gaze pinning Stiles in place. "But I don't want to hurt you," and there's a difference there, a subtle one, because it seems like they're always hurting each other. From the outside it might seem like that's all the do. "It doesn't -"

"I want to come when you fuck me," Stiles says, as clear as he can, biting the end of each word off, "I want to come when you're inside of me," and Derek makes a noise like - a noise you would not actually believe, and this is maybe the first time Stiles has regretted not letting Derek tape them. Though only a little. "Come on," he says again, and sets his teeth into the scar on Derek's arm, the burn mark. Thinks about the first time he touched it, the first time Derek shoved him to the ground outside. How scared he'd been - how unready, really, how they both were - and Derek just as confused, even if he'd been more forceful. "Derek, please."

| |

"You're _shaking_ ," Derek says, and his voice sounds wrecked. He sounds _lost_ , God, even to his own ears, and Stiles hisses. 

"Yeah, because I'm going to _come_ ," and he sounds so pissed-off at the idea that Derek tilts Stiles's head back and bites just under his Adam's apple. Hard enough for Stiles to make a little choking sound. To settle.

"I want," Stiles says, and Derek - Derek is tired of fighting himself, much less _Stiles_.

It's a running joke in high school, locker room talk - "just the head, baby, just the tip" - but Derek never has. Never tried. Stiles always seemed half-confused, half-grateful, wanting it but dreading it too. Stiles thinks Derek might have been afraid to even try because neither of them have a lot of impulse control, when it comes down to it. And that's at least half-true, Derek thinks. He's not worried about this moment so much as the ones after it - about how much he's going to want it, and how often, and how crazy it might make him.

He sets the head of his cock right where Stiles opens up. Feels Stiles's body grasp at him. _Flex_.

"Fuck," he says. Slurs it. Practically tastes it on his tongue. Thinks about Stiles fucking him for the first time - the push into him, the weirdly solid intrusion. The way Derek couldn't keep his body from moving, from trying to center itself, thrusting down on Stiles as much as Stiles was thrusting into him. "Fuck, I have to -" and he's got one hand holding Stiles apart, open for him, and he's guiding himself in with the other. One shallow thrust. Not as hard as he wants. Not even as bad as he's thinking the next one is going to be, and Stiles isn't even swearing at him. Isn't saying anything. Just looks up at him with big wide eyes in a face that Derek has been watching him grow into for years. A body that's finally going to match.

"Fuck," Stiles says, and his voice breaks. Hoarse in a way even Derek has never really heard, a level Stiles has never slipped to no matter how much he chatters and talks. Like there's not enough air.

So Derek does it again. Deeper. A little harder, and Stiles's eyebrows knit together. His mouth drops open, flash of soft pink tongue, and it's like his whole body tightens around Derek, bears down, and Stiles clutches at Derek, short dirty nails pushed into his back, the curve of his neck, like they're connected in more places than one. Any way they can be. 

"Oh," Derek says, fucking 'oh' like there aren't any words that could possibly even come close, and this time he's the one who loses it a little. Almost loses it right there, the second he's all the way inside, and it's a close thing - Stiles on his back, all bent up, ankles pushed up around Derek's ears, Derek slamming him against the headboard. Curled over him. A little cramped, but cozy, and close, and sweet. Tiny little thrusts, not like Derek is trying to fuck Stiles so much as fuck _through_ him, get as deep in Stiles as he can, as deep as Stiles goes, as anyone is ever going get. 

They've been here before as far as logistics go. They know how this works - they know how to not get hurt, what feels the best, what works, what doesn't - but in a way it's still so abstract. Derek has been waiting for this for so long. To own Stiles this way. To know him. To have every part of him.

It isn't long before Stiles is tearing up, not quite crying but almost hyperventilating, gasping and hiccuping with trying to tell Derek what to do and kiss him and breathe him in all at once. Whimpering out a string of perfect and complete nonsense that only gets more and more twisted the harder Derek fucks him and the faster he strokes Stiles's dick in his hand. Until Stiles comes, until Derek wrings his orgasm from him and buries his teeth in Stiles's neck. Tastes the gleam of sweat on Stiles's upper lip.

When Derek comes it doesn't even feel right - it doesn't feel like _coming_. It feels more like something sucked all the oxygen out of the room. Like he lost and gained something all at once. Like Stiles is _his_ , and Derek doesn't think he stops so much as collapses on top of Stiles, a sweaty mess, and Stiles makes a little noise in the back of his throat. 

"Sorry," Derek murmurs, and rolls a little onto his side. Enough to let Stiles breathe. "Hurts, I know."

"Just sore."

"Still."

"It's good," Stiles insists, and curls his fingers on Derek's chest. "Really - I want to do it again," willing to sacrifice himself upon the altar that is Derek's dick, and Derek snickers. Shit, he's gone _loopy_. 

"Maybe later." Definitely later, just - it's for his own sanity, really. He's already thinking about watching Stiles walk around tomorrow; a slight limp, or moving slow. He'd look weak, like easy prey. Like something anyone could take, nothing attached to him that says _Derek_. "Maybe not," and Derek tries to let Stiles laugh for a minute, the cupid's bow of his mouth against the curve of Derek's cheekbone, before he gives into the urge to pull Stiles over his lap and shove his fingers back inside. Wet them, and open Stiles up again. "Thank you."

"You're such an idiot, seriously," Stiles murmurs, which Derek takes to mean - something good. Something that's gone just fine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> next, Scott isn't as out of it as he appears.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Scott is the best friend a boy could have, and Derek needs something from Stiles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warnings for **branding**. 
> 
> in my head the brand is significantly smaller than Derek's current tattoo; I really wasn't going for permanent damage. overall, the boys are pretty safe - especially considering some of the slave fic written with branding, what the _hell_ , people - but branding is definitely one of those things best done by a professional in a sterile environment. psa of the day. further, I have no personal experience with branding, and good first-person accounts on the internet were not easy to find. I only found one video that I liked, and some scant information on body mod sites. feel free to correct anything particularly egregious.
> 
> also, this chapter is hella long. whew. hope it was worth the (terrible, terrible, I am so terrible) wait.
> 
> thanks to angelgazing for the beta, and likeasieve for listening to me ramble <3

The first time Stiles sees Derek with a cigarette, he raises an eyebrow.

"Don't let Dad see you," he says. "You'll get a lecture, and one of those weighted 'I am disappointed in you' looks that you _think_ don't mean anything, but will haunt you in your sleep."

"Because I make a point of doing things in front of your father he'd disapprove of," Derek says, but he stamps the cigarette out carefully.

The next time Stiles sees Derek with a cigarette he rolls his eyes.

"Really?"

Derek shrugs.

The time after that it sort of hits Stiles that Derek has _taken up_ smoking. Is a _smoker_. So sue him, he gets worried. He might make a PowerPoint about lung cancer and shortened life span and also, how Derek’s come is going to taste gross. Priorities.

“Do you really think I’m going to live forever?” Derek asks, and it hits Stiles like a ton of bricks - no, probably not. Not with what they do. Maybe he's fifteen and stupid, fifteen and short-sighted and afraid of forever, but no - he doesn't.

"Don't," he says, anxious, panic rolling over him like a cloud, and his voice breaks. "Don't, you're not allowed to - you can't -" and Derek stares at him for a moment, uncomprehending. Maybe _he_ always thought, always assumed, but it's just occurring to Stiles, somehow. That this all ends, one day. One way or another.

Derek still smells like cigarettes, sometimes, but after that he never smokes around Stiles.

| |

"I'm going to tell Scott about us," Stiles announces, and next to him Derek stiffens. Spine going straight as a board. "I know you don't think it's a good idea. I know you guys kind of... uh, 'hate each other' probably covers it best. I get that. You might have a spot picked out in the woods to bury his body, which makes some of our trips out there even more disturbing -"

"Stiles.”

"I wouldn't write it off!" Stiles insists, and because Derek doesn't say anything else he gets the sort of amusing feeling he might be at least half-right. "He's my best friend, okay, and he's been my best friend since I was six. He was my best friend when my mom died, and when I broke my arm and couldn't do anything fun the summer we were supposed to go to camp, and for - for everything. And as dopey as he might seem, he's not entirely stupid. One day he's going to figure it out. One day he's going to _ask_ and he's going to be pissed I didn't tell him."

Now Derek has that little crinkle in between his eyebrows, the one that means he's either thinking or getting really angry. Fifty-fifty.

"And he's not going to tell Dad," Stiles continues, hopefully. "He won't tell anyone if I ask. I mean, he'll probably freak out and go talk to Allison, but a) she's a sweetheart, and b) considering she's not supposed to be dating Scott at all I think we have a mutually assured destruction sort of situation going on."

Derek still isn't saying anything, and now Stiles is actually a little bit worried.

"Derek?" and for a second Stiles is thirteen again, confused and unsure and wondering if there was some unknown rule he broke or line he crossed, because how was he supposed to know about rules or lines? There's no handbook for this, okay, and Stiles knows, he has _Googled_. Having a relationship that skirts the edges of legality - who the fuck is he kidding, _skirts_ \- means there aren't a lot of solid answers. And when nobody else knows there isn't anyone to ask either. That's all he wants. Someone to confide in. And Scott, all appearances to the contrary, is a good friend. A good person.

"Shit," Derek says, and rubs at his eyes. "All right. Do what you want."

"I was _going to_ ," Stiles shoots back, like he hasn't gotten a sick rush of relief, and Derek huffs out something like a laugh.

"Surprise, surprise," complete with his best scrunched up sour face, and Stiles presses his thumbs into the places where Derek's eyebrows try to meld together.

"Come on," he says. "It'll be okay. I promise."

| |

Stiles decides the best time to strike is after lacrosse practice, when he and Scott hang out and potential freak-out energy is at a low. Take Stiles's word for it - when you've just spent half an hour running suicides, you don't feel like doing _anything_ , much less run screaming to the Sheriff about his fifteen year old son's boyfriend.

"Look, Scott," Stiles says, and then he pauses, because even though he's thought about how he was going to tell Scott _all week_ \- breaking it gently, or maybe weaseling his way into it, or starting off with 'remember how no one wanted you to date Allison?' - he hasn't figured it out. "There's something I want to tell you. It's about, uh, Derek. And me. Me and Derek. Derek and I, if you will." He's pretty certain that dropping the bomb is the way to go. Scott might not deal well with change, but whenever it happens he's always concerned with getting back to the status quo. And the sooner he accepts Derek and Stiles as an everyday thing, the better they're all going to be. "We're sort of - we're kind of - "

"You love him," Scott says simply, and Stiles just about swallows his tongue. He chokes a bit, and when he finally gets his breath back Scott is looking at him worriedly. "You knew that, right?"

"I mean - well, _yeah_ , I thought I was going to have to ease you into it!" From the mouths of freaking babes. Or idiots. Fools? There is some sort of saying for this occasion. "You didn't - you hate him!"

"But you don't," Scott says, and it's so _reasonable_ that Stiles gets a little shocked all over again.

"No," Stiles says. "No, I don't hate him."

"You love him," Scott says again, and he's grinning the same way he does when Stiles tells him anything good, like 'bro, we are going to see the new Bourne movie this weekend, or 'seriously, I think Harris might have _smiled_ today, do you think he's dying?'

"Yeah," Stiles says, and now he's smiling too. "I really do."

"Cool," and Scott holds his fist out for Stiles to bump.

| |

Derek never asks, because Derek never asks about anything, but the next time the three of them play Mario Kart doesn't end in bloodshed, so Stiles figures they've got it all worked out.

| |

When everyone else starts working themselves into a pre-college panic, Derek remains calm, easily. It's not hard for him to figure out what he's going to do with the rest of his life. There are two things he loves in this world - Stiles, and fire. To be honest, there isn't a college that's going to let him major in Stiles, so fire it is. Fire Protection Administration, if he's being specific, but it's fire, for Derek. Sometimes it feels like it wasn't his _choice_ , precisely, but he lives with it.

John gets this fuzzy look in his eyes, sometimes, when they talk about it. Pride. Like John really is his family. Something like a dad. It's been a while since Derek's had one, and John isn't - John isn't _him_ , but if Derek had to go through life without one, John is a good substitute.

Stiles gets panicky about Derek going away. He doesn't say anything, but he clings more. He pouts. Gets his thinking-face on when he thinks no one's looking.

"You know I'd never leave you," Derek says, "not like that. I'm not even going that far," and Stiles rolls his eyes.

"I _know_."

But Stiles doesn't, or at least he doesn't believe it. Doesn't understand what Derek's trying to say, or maybe Derek's not saying it right. It might even have something to do with Kate, Derek thinks. Stiles has a memory like the proverbial elephant, and the same generally placid nature: Derek is forgiven but Kate is not forgotten. He'll have to figure out a way to make it up to Stiles. Has to figure out a way to make Stiles see.

| |

It isn’t something Derek decides on lightly, for how accidentally he came across the idea.

Derek doesn't look at porn a lot - he shares a computer with Peter, for one, and Peter is frighteningly better with technology than Derek, by leaps and bounds - and Derek has Stiles, and memories of Stiles, and the things he's usually going to do to Stiles in the near future, so it isn't often that Derek even goes looking for something. He's put off by most of it, frankly; likes the noises more than anything, when they aren't obviously faked.

There was one video, though. A certain boy, with brown hair - the wrong shade, and too curly - but he'd been soft like Stiles, vaguely muscled, a long-streamlined stretch across the bed he'd been strapped to. Sweet around the face, and he'd made the same soft gasps Stiles had when he'd gotten fucked, which was enough.

Then Derek noticed what looked like a tattoo on the boy's arm. Faint. But when the camera had panned closer - for how the boy was sucking greedily on the other actor's fingers, not that Derek cared as much about that - Derek could see it was a scar. Not just any scar, but a _burn_. And not a burn like the one Derek had on his arm, ragged and misshapen and ugly, but something that was chosen. Deliberate. So very beautiful.

Derek had bookmarked it, but hadn't thought about it - about what it might have meant, anyway, until he'd kept coming back to it. Derek isn't entirely unaware of his feelings. Isn't exactly unaware of how he gets when his mind grabs hold of something.

| |

Derek's life starts to feel particularly surreal when graduation comes around. It's not that he didn't think he'd get here so much as he never particularly _did_ think about it, if that makes any sense. It was Laura's year to graduate when the house burned. Seems strange that Derek got his turn, and Laura didn't. Strange to think that much time has passed, and that Derek's life has been passing with it.

When it's time for the actual ceremony, John is there and Peter isn't, but that's okay. It is. Peter has his own stuff to deal with, his own scars left by the fire, and Derek doesn't necessarily mean the obvious ones. Seeing your life go up in flames - seeing everyone you ever loved die right before your eyes - it changes you. Peter after the fire isn't the same Peter as before the fire, and Derek accepts that. He likes to think he understands more than anyone.

Stiles is there too, sitting next to John and twitching in his seat. The minute the ceremony ends he's shoving through the crowd; tall and still uncoordinated, a mess of 'sorry' and 'excuse me, coming through', and Derek watches him push through the crowd with something swelling in his chest. When Stiles throws his arms around Derek's neck in front of the lacrosse team, no one even bats an eyelash. They're far too used to Derek-and-Stiles to care. Greenberg is the resident scapegoat, not the Stilinskis.

Derek drives Stiles home in the Camero, and they lose fifteen minutes tucked into the service road near the house, making out; and when they're late they blame it on the traffic leaving the high school. John makes them burgers and curly fries for dinner, which Derek has come to understand as shorthand for 'you've done good.' It's hard, sometimes, being around only guys. He thinks woman are just better at this sort of thing, or they're allowed to be, maybe. Derek remembers how his mother could coax things out of him, that Laura would poke Derek until he grumbled like a roused bear. Even with Stiles's gift of gab, sometimes they never really _say_ anything. They have to show it.

"So. College," John says after dinner, the two of them sitting on the porch. "Think you're ready?"

Ready for college? Life? Derek thinks of Stiles, inside, loading the dishes into the dishwasher and eating the leftover curly fries because no one's watching. He thinks about where he was three years ago, so fresh from the fire the insides of his nostrils still felt singed. He thinks about where he could be three years from now, and he only sees it getting better and better.

"Ready," Derek says, and he means it.

| |

Derek asks John if Stiles can go camping with him for the weekend after graduation. Calms John down after he stops laughing, actually, and persuades him, because John finds the idea of Stiles camping both hilarious and alarming - which, fair, Stiles is not an outdoor person beyond lacrosse, have you _seen_ his skin tone? - but Derek likes the great outdoors. He likes fucking Stiles in it too, and that part has always worked pretty well for Stiles.

"Is it far?" Stiles asks. "Are you gonna make me hike? Oh god, we're not going _hiking_ are we? You didn't mention hiking. I was lured here with the promise of fantastic sex, dude, don't pull a bait and switch on me now."

Derek has to stifle a grin before he answers, because Stiles can smell it on him - the happiness. "We're just hiking to the camp site, Stiles."

"We passed like a dozen camp sites. And I am not even exaggerating. Real camp sites. With people."

Derek takes a minute to look back over his shoulder. "Exactly."

"Exact -- oh."

"You're not _exactly_ quiet."

"I - cannot argue with that."

"Really."

Stiles chirps with happiness. "Shut up!" and proceeds to do exactly the opposite when they reach their site, barely choking off a shriek when Derek pushes him against their bags and blows him.

"Point proven," Derek says, smug, and Stiles hits him on the shoulder, and soon enough they're tussling on the ground, wrestling like children.

| |

Derek doesn't actually make Stiles go on a hike - "thank _God_ ," Stiles says, so fervently that Derek rolls his eyes.

"How are you this lazy and still on the lacrosse team?"

"It doesn't mean I spend my free time exercising!"

They spend most of the morning setting up the tent. Or Derek does, while Stiles shuffles through their backpacks and gathers fallen brush for a fire. They waste the rest of the day swimming in the nearby lake. Dunking one another, splashing and yelling, other campers on the peripheral of their vision. Looking for all the world like two boys playing in the sun and nothing more.

They have hot dogs for dinner, plus carrots and apples - what Derek calls horse food, though only half-heartedly - he's come to realize healthy eating is one of the quiet ways Stiles expresses his feelings. They do make s'mores though, after they manage to let the fire burn down to a manageable level. Derek makes one just for the spirit of it, and eats half; Stiles has three and then the remains of a chocolate bar. Sugar gone gritty in his mouth.

He'll ask Stiles tomorrow, he thinks. Not before. Stiles doesn’t do well with waiting. Pitches himself back and forth between fear and anticipation. He'd take a hit now rather than a pinch later, because he'll build it up in his head. And Stiles is the kind of person who knows his own mind, who makes decisions instantly. Good at seeing the benefits and detriments right away. The intrinsic value. The repercussions. He's stubborn, too; not the kind of person to be persuaded easily. Derek will ask, and Stiles will or he won't.

For now, Derek enjoys the way they fit together - the curve of Stiles against him, the weight of him. Thinks about taking him back into the tent, the two of them together, the scent of Stiles when he sleeps, the way his body goes soft and pliable and still so unexpectedly quiet.

It's not the first time they're spent the night together, technically, but it will be close. Derek has snuck into Stiles's room and back out again before John got home; Derek has slept over with John two doors down, but rarely risks staying in the same bed as Stiles. Hasn't had the chance to do this free and clear and unafraid of the consequences.

Derek waits for the fire to die down, to bank the embers, and crawl into the tent.

| |

Stiles wakes up slowly the next morning. Derek curled up behind him like his own personal space heater, though the tip of Stiles's nose has gone cold from where it had poked out of Derek's gigantic sleeping bag.

"Mmmgh," Stiles sighs, and shivers when Derek makes a shushing noise against the back of his neck. "Is this morning? Is this what morning feels like on a Saturday?"

Derek snorts. "You missed the sunrise, and sacrificial offering."

"Gooooood," stretched around a yawn. "You know how I feel about blood."

"Shut up," Derek says, and slides his hand down the front of Stiles's pjs. Warm from sleep and a little slick, like Derek had already licked his palm.

"Fuck." Stiles sighs, and rests his head back against Derek's shoulder. Tilts his hips just to the side, lets Derek do all of the work, and gets a knockout reach-around for his troubles, made all the better because Stiles is only just awake enough to enjoy it. He hunches up a little when he comes, turned towards the ground. Derek's cock rubs insistently at Stiles's back, the patch of skin between where Stiles's shirt is riding up and his pants are riding down, and when Derek comes he clenches at Stiles's hip hard enough to bruise.

After a moment Derek slides up to grasp for one of his ever-present undershirts, and wipes them clean.

"Don't want to get up," Stiles sighs, and lets Derek roll him over. Rub his stubble against the side of Stiles's face.

"Okay."

Stiles squints at him suspiciously. "Really? No hiking? No gross sweaty exercise while I get eaten to death by bugs and possibly small creatures?"

"I don't know, now you've made it sound so _appealing_..."

"Shhh. Shush," Stiles adds, hurriedly. "Put your hand back down my pants.” Derek makes a sound that might have to be called a giggle.

They get up eventually, because Stiles gets antsy even when he's lying around - maybe especially then - even exploring the texture of inside Derek's mouth is only appealing for so long. Derek stokes the fire back up and makes something that claims to be eggs, but Stiles is more than happy with apples, peanut butter, and trail mix.

"You want to go back to the lake today?" It was cooler this morning than yesterday, but it would be worth it for the way Derek's grin tripped out over his face - still so slow to smile, to be outwardly happy, to _show_ \- that Stiles is more than willing to do it again. The slimy sand, the murky water. Derek's warm hands on his waist. Scrubbing off and racing back to the campsite for dinner.

"There's something I want to ask you first," Derek says, and Stiles is so busy shoving trail mix in his face he doesn't think anything of it.

"Yeah, what?"

"Stiles.” And the tone somehow sinks in.

"Uh. Yeah?"

"You don't have to," Derek starts, before anything else, and for a second Stiles just - blinks, because, okay, that was a weird opener. Usually Stiles doesn't get much of a vote. Not that he usually _cares_ ; he doesn't mean that in a bad way, or anything. Derek has always been good at realizing exactly what Stiles can handle, and when, and how, so to have him say Stiles doesn't have to, for him to seem _unsure_ -

It's big, he thinks. Or it's dangerous, for _their_ given value of dangerous, and oh, that makes him shiver.

"I know," Stiles says, because he's never been afraid to say no to Derek, even if he never has. "C'mon, what?"

| |

Derek had tried the brand on himself, sort of. Had pressed it so far into his arm, so hard, that the pressure of it had left after-marks - had stood out, stark white and then blushing red, and a faint soreness that wasn't quite a bruise.

He wants it on his back, Derek thinks - right in the middle. Too close to the shoulder and it might restrict his range. He doesn't want to be permanently damaged. Damage isn't what he's going for at all.

| |

"You don't have to," Derek says again. He looks nervous, but Stiles is sure it isn't because of the pain.

"I formally request that you shut up," Stiles says, pleasantly, "unless you changed your mind."

After a moment Derek shakes his head.

"Okay then. So. Branding now, or...?"

Derek shakes his head again. "Later. But before it gets too dark."

"Let's go swimming then!" Stiles says, and puts the brand away. "Stop looking so grim, dude, that gives me at least eight hours to back out of this craziness."

Derek's face softens. "But you won't."

"But I won't," Stiles agrees. "Eat your powdery egg weirdness already, because if that shit is better cold there is no God."

| |

They spend the late morning swimming. It feels more fraught, this time; Derek's hands lingering whenever he goes to dunk Stiles, or splash him, and Stiles occasionally stops and _looks_ at Derek, like he's taking a Before picture.

Stiles makes them boxed mac and cheese for lunch, thick because there's no butter, extra salt and pepper to counteract the sweetness of the powdered milk, but to Derek it tastes fantastic. He's hungry in the way that comes from inhaling fresh air, romping in the sun, and just being eighteen - he's _ravenous_ , and when Stiles drags him into the tent to fuck and then nap, he doesn't complain.

They wake up a little after four. Stiles curls into Derek's chest and noses at Derek's neck, while Derek slips his hand under Stiles's shirt. Stiles has a lot of questions, and Derek explains as best he can. He'd looked up everything he could find out about branding - what to do, what to use, where to go. What infection looks like, what will happen to the shape, the color. The healing process. The pain. He'd had to go down to San Francisco for the brand. Paid an artist there to make it in stainless steel, and nearly crumbled under the Sheriff Stilinski-like gaze. Wanted to protest that he _is_ being responsible. Smart. Isn't using it on anyone but himself.

Which isn't to say he hasn't thought about using it on Stiles - asking, of course, asking first, but that doesn't stop Derek from _wanting_ \- but Derek reminds himself that's stupid, and reckless, and he has enough in his life that's stupid and reckless. There's no way Stiles could keep a brand hidden anywhere on his body, not on the lacrosse team. There's no way John wouldn't find out if it became infected, or if Stiles ever had to go to the hospital for anything else.

Derek, though. Derek is an adult. Derek is free. And this is something Derek wants. Something tangible. And Derek thinks, maybe - maybe when Stiles graduates high school. Three years from now. Another beautiful bit of symmetry.

| |

The supplies are buried in the bottom of Derek's bag - the propane torch, the gloves. The brand.

"It's small," Stiles says, but that's kind of a good thing, right?

"Easier to hide," Derek explains. "And the burn will spread a little. And I don't -"

"Like a secret," Stiles fills in, and the way Derek kisses him is _breathtaking_ , every damn definition of the word.

| |

It doesn't take long to set everything up, and even less time for Stiles to turn the brand nearly cherry red, with surprisingly steady hands. But Stiles is surprisingly adept at most things, Derek has found. So much more together than people give him credit for.

"Last chance," Stiles says, and Derek tries to still himself. Arms wrapped around the backpack, tight.

"Do it."

There's a rustling noise behind him as Stiles gets down on his knees. The brand close enough to throw heat on Derek's back, and Derek bites his lip. Caught somewhere between fear and anticipation, the way he always is around fire.

"You've got this," Stiles says, leaning in next to Derek's ear. "It's going to be _amazing_.” One of the things Derek loves best about Stiles is the way he makes people believe things. Reassures them. Derek has seen Stiles do it to his father, Scott, his teammates... It'd be stupid to think Derek was immune.

It's strange, maybe, that the smell gets to Derek before the pain does. It smells like burning flesh - _is_ burning flesh, he reminds himself, humorlessly - but it's the sizzle of it that does him in. A sound Derek has heard a thousand times over, but never quite like this; he was never what was sizzling. It's not that he and Stiles haven't burned themselves before, because of course they have - fingertips, the side of Derek's hand. A hot rock to Stiles's shin, once, before he'd yelped and rolled off it. Barely long enough to leave a red mark. This is something different entirely, and Derek has gone faint and sick and dizzy-headed all at once when the pain really hits.

Derek doesn't remember the burn on his arm - too doped up, too depressed, too worried about other things to care about his _arm_ \- but this makes him wonder how he ever could have forgotten it. It feels so much larger than the space where the brand will be, like his entire upper body is going up in flames. He grits his teeth and arches his back, as hard as he tries not to. He tries to shove himself away, and he thinks Stiles might press forward. The whole thing is only a few seconds, Derek knows, but feels like an eternity all the same.

"Done," Stiles says, and Derek drops his head forward onto the backpack. It's not even that the pain stops, though the searing agony of it is certainly gone. Less present. More like the pain after an injury; like pulling a muscle, maybe, or bruising bone - too deep to do anything about. Buried. Sunk in.

Derek breathes in the plastic smell of the almost-denim material, and tries to focus on Stiles rustling around behind him.

"Here," Stiles says, and presses one of the Gatorade bottles into Derek's hand. It takes a moment for Derek's fingers to unbend. Takes longer than it should, like everything's gone stiff. He might be shaking. Stiles has already taken off the top and tipped some of the liquid out; thinking of everything.

"Thanks," Derek says, and sips cautiously.

"You okay?" Stiles asks, kneeling beside him, voice pitched lower than usual.

Derek nods. "Hurts," and it does, he's not lying - he can tell it hurts, that's it's going to hurt a hell of a lot more tomorrow, every part of him thrumming with it, and yet - "Good," he finishes, and sets his forehead against Stiles's shoulder.

"Hurts good, huh?" Stiles reaches up to run his fingers through Derek's hair. "Gotta say, you look a little pale."

"Yeah?"

"Pretty happy about it, though."

"Yeah," Derek repeats, because he's not much of a conversationalist even on his better days. He can hear Stiles snicker.

"Drink your Gatorade, okay? Then maybe you can try to give me more than one syllable."

"'Kay," Derek says, and does his best to sit up properly. He knows it's the endorphins that are making him like this, the unspent adrenaline. It'll pass. He swallows more Gatorade. "How does it look?"

The suck of inhaled air. "Bad. Like the skin just sort of - curled up. And your whole back looks red. Like, diseased."

"It'll look better soon," Derek says, reassuring as he can. As long as it's not black. This is barely worse than burning yourself in the kitchen at home.

"Yeah," Stiles says, but he still has his hand in Derek's hair. Running down Derek's nape, not quite to where the brand is, but close.

Derek feels this big, ridiculous grin stretch out over his face, completely independent of any thought he has to hold it back. "Like it, huh?"

He feels Stiles hesitate. The stutter of his hand through Derek's hair. "Yeah. Yeah, of course I like it. You like it, right?"

"Love it," Derek says. Can't imagine not loving it, not one single thing about it. Even now, still wincing from the pain, he loves it - the design, the permanency, who gave it to him, when - everything. He sets the Gatorade on the ground and reaches to palm himself through his jeans, because _god_ he's hard. He'd sort of ignored that part these last few minutes, but now that he no longer feels like he's going to fall over... "Love it," he says again, and Stiles shudders next to him.

"Derek - can I...?"

"Whatever." Not as a dismissal. Literally whatever Stiles wants.

"Cool," Stiles breathes, and the hand that's been sliding over the back of Derek's neck finally slips down, clever long fingers over Derek's shoulder blade, and Derek can't help the way he leans into Stiles's touch. "I won't touch it, I mean, just -" Stiles takes another deep breath. "This isn't too much?"

"No." Nothing feels like too much right now. Endorphins, Derek reminds himself. "Please."

"Let's go.” Stiles swallows audibly. "Let's get you inside the tent, okay?" It's still daylight, and Derek picked an out-of-the-way campsite for a reason, but that doesn't mean someone couldn't stumble across them.

"Okay." Derek realizes he's being strangely agreeable, but what's the harm? He _wants_ to be in the tent with Stiles. Likes that Stiles is just as fucked over this as Derek is. He lets Stiles drag him to his feet and into the tent. Sits down on the sleeping bags and then pulls Stiles down with him. Kisses him, messily, and Stiles grasps at Derek's shoulders with flexing hands. An unexpectedly needy noise spilling out of his mouth.

"Wait, wait," and Stiles is shifting; pulling Derek up on his knees so Stiles can slide behind him. The opposite of what they would normally do, either face to face or Stiles in Derek's lap. But Derek knows that Stiles wants to see the burn, wants to _see_ \- one hand sliding inside Derek's jeans and wrapping around his cock, easy, because Derek's is already wet; dripping precome, slicked down over the head. Stiles's other hand is carefully pressed to Derek's back. Fingers spread outside the burn, around it, pushing into skin, and the weight of each fingertip feels like another brand.

"Fuck," Derek swears, "fuck," and he's grasping at Stiles's hip, shoving into Stiles's hand as hard as he can manage. Far beyond anything artful. It feels so _good_ right now, all of it, anything - every inch of himself like a thousand nerves on fire, and Stiles breathing hard against the back of his neck. "Stiles, please," and Stiles starts jerking him off harder, forehead pushed into the nape of Derek's neck, not quite a bite and not quite a kiss, open mouth just _breathing_ , wet and heavy, and when Derek comes he feels the force of it shudder up through his spine. Spilling out over Stiles's knuckles.

"S'good," he murmurs, "c'mon," and then it's just Stiles, grasping at Derek's upper arms, his hips. Holding him still while he comes, splashing come over Derek's lower back in thick, hot tendrils. Careful to keep the brand clean.

Always so careful, Derek thinks. Always so responsible. Stiles takes better care of Derek than Derek does of him. Derek's protective - Derek handles the big things, maybe, the threats, but Stiles has had a thousand tiny moments since that first time he tried to put Derek at ease, and they played Pacman together in the living room.

"I love you," Derek says, "I _love_ you," and he's not talking through his orgasm, it's not because of endorphins or adrenaline or anything like that, not at all. He loves Stiles, he does.

"Love you too," Stiles murmurs, and he's sort of pushed himself back around again. Holding Derek up from the front, and then settling him down into the sleeping bags so he's lying on his stomach. Wiping his back off delicately, and then nestling up against him until Derek can slide one arm around Stiles's waist.

"Guess you're going right to sleep, huh?" he hears Stiles whisper, fond, and Derek tries to mumble something back before he drifts off.

| |

Derek wakes up in nearly the same position the next morning. Stiles snuggled under him, the cold damp dawn, the sun settled just under the horizon. A moment Derek's so profoundly grateful for he just breathes.

| |

They end up having to leave some of their stuff at the campsite. Derek doesn't want much more against his back than his shirt, and Stiles can't carry as much as he'd like to think he can. Not that Derek's crying over losing a few cooking supplies.

The ride back to Beacon Hills is quiet. Stiles drops back asleep in the Camero, snuggled down in one of Derek's hoodies, and he's still only half awake when they stop for coffee and donuts on the interstate. He keeps staring at Derek’s back when they pay at the register, right between his shoulder blades, the itchiest, most painful part, and when they get back out to the parking lot Derek pulls his shirt off. Lets Stiles come up behind him and touch, delicately, the vertebrae in his neck, his lower back. Lets him breathe over it before slipping back into the car.

Derek takes one of the painkillers he had left over from the time he hurt his shoulder and crunches it between his teeth. Bitter, and dry.

They're nearly home when Stiles asks, "when are we going to tell Dad?”

Derek takes exactly half a second to think about _that_. "Never.”

Stiles scoffs. “He’s not an idiot, you know. Neither of us have ever had girlfriends. Not really. And you practically live at our house. He _knows_ you.”

“He doesn’t know about us.” Derek's certain of that. There's no way John would be as accepting of Derek as he is if he knew. If he had any _idea_. He certainly doesn't know they're been fucking since Stiles was thirteen. Derek would be in jail, or more likely dead, and that is not an exaggeration. John seems like a hands-off parent to some people - not home much, leaves Stiles in charge of the house, gives Stiles his own car to get around - but John would go to lengths most people would only _dream_ of if someone hurt his kid.

"We can't _not_ tell him," Stiles argues. "It's going to have to happen sometimes. You really think later would be better, if he finds out it's been going on for years?"

The answer to that is a rather emphatic _no_.

"When you turn sixteen," Derek says, three or four miles later. “Though don’t be surprised if he grounds you until you’re eighteen.” Or forever. God, he needs another painkiller.

"He wouldn't," Stiles says, but Derek can hear that he doesn't quite believe it.

| |

They spend the first weeks of summer together. Sweet and easy, because summer gives them freedom, free time and loose schedules, and even cover from Scott when Stiles begs for it. Derek takes the first two weeks off work for the brand to scab over, and then continues with the forestry crew. Stiles gets a part-time job at a local diner busing the tables. There's a lot of downtime, apparently, because he spends far too much time texting Derek when he's at work.

 _what kind of freak gets a side of eggs with grilled cheese????_ " he sends, and Derek huffs.

"Girlfriend?" one of the guys jokes, clearly ready with an 'old-ball-and-chain' comment, and Derek shakes his head. Can't quite summon up enough energy to care.

"Boyfriend," he says. Like a quiet little bomb going off, and Derek can't be bothered to look at the aftermath. What does he care? It doesn't change anything for him. If some people at work are a little stiff around him for a few days, he ignores it. Stiles won't be a secret forever. They'd better get used to it now.

| |

Stiles doesn't expect to like Derek's brand as much as he does. Derek getting it was... weird. Like, sometimes Stiles only thinks about the pain, that Derek had shrieked through gritted teeth. The smell of him burning. The way his entire back had gone red, splotchy and irritated, fever-hot.

And then sometimes Stiles focuses on the way Derek had writhed, how hard he'd gotten and the way his pupils had dilated, that Stiles had dragged Derek into the tent and nutted all over his back not even ten minutes later. He thinks about the way Derek quiets when Stiles plays with the brand now - just growls a little, under his hands, and Stiles feels his heart swell with it, honestly. He feels... pride, almost? Like it was some sort of accomplishment, when, really, it's Derek's if anyone's. Derek’s the one who went through the pain. Stiles just gets the benefits. The really insanely sexy benefits.

Anyway. It's not that Stiles thought Derek was crazy for wanting it, exactly, but he understands more of the appeal that he might have before.

| |

Stiles takes to fucking Derek when he's on his stomach, so Stiles can push his face against the brand. He likes to pull out and come all over it, nearly as hot as the brand was to begin with, or so it feels to Derek. Stiles likes when he can put his hand on Derek's back, fingers running over the brand. In the beginning Stiles even scratches it open a few times - nothing serious, but enough - and Derek lets him freak out and then clean it, lets him put a bandage over it. Likes the harried, worshipful look he gets, and anyway, soon enough it's just a scar. Raised enough for Stiles's hands to find even in the dark.

| |

In August Derek moves into his new apartment. He's only going to a community college, so there aren't many dorms to begin with, and Derek has never done particularly well with sharing space. His apartment is all right. Student housing, clearly, but good enough to suit his purposes. Big enough for a queen-sized, and Derek watches Stiles bounce on it, mischievous, while John putters around in the kitchen during move-in.

School isn't bad. Not much harder than high school. Just different. Less spoon-fed, more sink-or-swim-its-your-own-fault-now. Derek's more than capable, and basic requirements are a joke anyway. He gets a part-time job at the school library to fill his time, and goes back to Beacon Hills on the weekends. Stiles is there to welcome him, when he's not out running around with Scott, and even though Derek ostensibly stays with Peter when he's home, everyone knows he's a Stilinski.

| |

"Dad," Stiles says. "There's something we really need to tell you," and Derek can feel his heart start to beat double-time, blip blip blipblipblip, like a pounding in his ears. A noise so loud he can barely hear what Stiles says. About the two of them, and love, and family, and trust - all white noise. John stares at Stiles for so long that Derek gets nervous. Fills up with a weird sort of dread he hasn't felt in years.

Derek hasn't let himself dwell on this; couldn't, without feeling like he was drowning. What if John isn't okay with it? What if he won't let Derek come around anymore? What if he won't let them see one another? Stiles is only sixteen, and John is the Sheriff - what _couldn't_ John do, if he put his mind to it? Two years before they're out of the woods, and even then, if John didn't approve - Derek has never really let him think about it in terms of he and John fighting for Stiles's affection, because he knows he would lose. Derek doesn't doubt that Stiles loves him, not at all, but Stiles would never be able to lose his father, and Derek doesn't want him to.

And suddenly Stiles is hugging John, or John's hugging Stiles, or - both, and John is holding out his other arm while Stiles snickers, grabs hold of Derek's shirt and _tugs_ , and - and Derek in enveloped, completely, into their arms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wow. thanks for sticking with me, guys, and for all your comments and kudos. there's only one more 'chapter' after this, which is really an epilogue set a few years down the road. stay tuned!


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finals have ruined Stiles, utterly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks to Marianna for the beta :)
> 
> fun fact - this was one of the first bits I wrote in this verse. I might be a bit contrary. Or Time Lord. chronological writing is nasty stuff.

When Derek slides into bed, he smells like smoke. Acrid and almost cloying, when Stiles presses his nose into Derek’s chest and snuffles, barely half-awake. 

Stiles only gets as far as "where...?" before the yawn overtakes him. 

“An old barn in Bangor burnt down,” Derek says. Low and soft, sailing just past Stiles's ear. “Total loss.”

“You didn’t set it without me, did you. S'not buddies."

"I wouldn't," Derek promises, and starts to roll Stiles onto his stomach. 

Hmm. Surprise, surprise. "All fired up, I see,” Stiles says, chuckling a little because hey, he’s funny.

Stiles can practically feel Derek roll his eyes. "How old are you again?"

"Is there a wrong answer to that question?" Stiles purrs. Then snickers, because he can practically hear Derek's brain rebooting, stuck between the weird guilty regret he gets caught up in sometimes, and the fact that there probably _isn't_ a wrong answer to that question. 

"You are..." Derek starts, and takes a moment to just _breathe_ really loudly, like the creeper Stiles knows he is deep down inside. "... a torment, Jesus," but he says torment the way other people say miracle.

"Put on earth just for you, baby," and Stiles wriggles his ass, just a little. Lets Derek hook his fingers under Stiles's sweats and pull them down, thumbs pushing up under the edge of his ass and pressing. Squeezing, as Derek rubs his ungodly stubble against the small of Stiles's back, ticklish and itchy and pleasing all at once. 

Derek stops a moment to play there - fingers sliding in and out, easy, because Stiles is still wet, still a little loose. Fucked only a few hours ago, just before Derek left. Enough. And they both like the burn anyway; of course they do. And, Stiles thinks, maybe a little deliriously - that he's _used_ to it too; Derek fucking him, whenever either of them get the urge, in any part of their apartment. Not having to carve out the time for themselves, steal it, make excuses for it. Stiles spent his first month at college dragging Derek out to kiss him in public, everywhere he could, before dragging him back to bed, just _because_ he could. It's something he hasn't entirely gotten over. To Stiles's method of thinking, why would you _ever_ kiss in private if your boyfriend looked like Derek?

"Good?" Derek asks, the rumble of it all up and down Stiles's spine.

"Go for it," Stiles says, and Derek does. Pulls himself up the length of Stiles's body, gets on his knees between Stiles's legs, and pushes in. Just a few short thrusts, sweet and slow, and the drag of them, oh - Stiles was nicely sleepy before but he's waking up now; slow, sticky degrees of waking, his body getting into it. Catching up to his mouth.

When Derek bottoms out he drapes himself over Stiles, covers him in a blanket of living heat. They lie there for a minute; Stiles half-smothered in a pillow, sighing as he pushes back against Derek. Might as well be pushing back against a brick wall. Sometimes Stiles goes in for the challenge - okay, _usually_ \- but he's pretty content to let Derek take his own sweet time on this one. Less work for Stiles. Even he can appreciate a good, lazy orgasm now and again.

After a while Derek pulls himself up. One of his hands settling on Stiles's hip and holding him still, the other pressed into his shoulder and holding him down. When Derek starts to move again, it's not hard enough to be called a thrust - a flex, maybe. Moving inside Stiles the tiniest little bit. Slow. Stiles remembers the first time they'd done this; how Derek had trembled, how careful he'd been, how terrified that Stiles was going to get up and run in the opposite direction. It's different now - it's _settled_ , Stiles thinks, for lack of another word - but every so often Derek falls back to it. Like Stiles is some precious delicate thing. 

Stiles lets Derek manhandle him a little, because even though Stiles finally caught up in height he's not anywhere near width and _breadth_ , not even close to all the ridiculous muscles Derek has, the strength. Derek doesn't use it against him quite as much as Stiles would like. Stiles has tried to explain, to ask, but it's slow going. When Derek gets angry - or, uh, emotional _at all_ \- he sequesters himself. His own little brand of exile. And Derek still gets angry a lot. Stiles isn't sure if it's more or less often than when they were kids. Derek lets him in more often, let's him _know_ , but that's not exactly the same thing.

"Mm, god, _fuck_ , you magnificent bastard,” Stiles says, the bitter, dry taste of ash and smoke in his mouth and in his nose. Above him Derek chuckles. “You animal, you haven’t even showered.”

“Knew you’d like it.”

“I love it,” Stiles grumbles, because Jesus, he probably wasn’t going to be this fucked up until he met Derek. Not that he's particularly upset about it or anything. “Fuck me harder.”

“Pushy," oh, like Derek _cares_. "Get on your knees,” Derek says, even as he’s pulling Stiles up by his hips, shoving a hand under Stiles's thigh to yank him closer. "Just like - yeah," he stutters out, and yes, _oh_ , Stiles agrees, definitely an improvement. 

Stiles shoves his face down into his arms, the pillows. Each thrust making him arch higher and higher, like a cat being petted the right way. "Come on," he says, and he can't see Derek's face, but he can picture it - brows drawn down, face pinched tight even as his mouth falls open, just a little. The way he starts to bite at his lower lip, draw it in and wet it, worry it, and if Stiles were turned the other way around he'd be kissing Derek already. It's that thought more than anything, somehow, that has Stiles shifting onto one elbow and reaching to take himself in hand. Groaning when Derek grinds his hips, when he starts to snap in and out with a vengeance.

Slight exhibitionist kink aside, Stiles loves having sex in their bed. _Their_ bed, their unexpectedly soft, cushy bed, topped with sheets with a ridiculously high hreadcount. Stiles doesn't wash them nearly as often as he should. Not because he's a slobby college student, but because he loves pushing his face into them and smelling Derek. Smelling them both. Derek's cologne and nasty two-in-one shampoo, sometimes his soap and sometimes Stiles's body wash, bitter and warm and musk and sweat, ashy in the fall, dirt in the spring. Stiles puts his mouth to it, like maybe he could _taste_ \- 

Stiles comes inside of his hand, against his stomach; clenched around Derek, bucking his hips and mewling, sheets clenched between his teeth. He feels the way Derek shudders to a stop behind him - then two, three more thrusts, shaking, riding out his orgasm in a way that Stiles envies; still too sensitive, after all these years. Forever, probably, he thinks drowsily. Can't even stand Derek's mouth on him, even though Derek _begs_.

Derek pulls out slowly, hand on Stiles's hip clenching and unclenching, sore from how tight he'd held on. There will be a bruise later, maybe - even a few days down the line. Stiles is pale but not particularly soft; sometimes it takes time to rise to the surface. He spots them in the bathroom mirror, sometimes. Little surprises. For now, Derek rubs at the red mark - reverently, apologetically - and pushes them both down onto the bed.

Stiles is wet between his thighs now, a little sloppy. He should get up and take care of it, but - ugh. Too comfortable here, even with Derek mostly back on top of him, and squeezing out all his air.

"Mm," Stiles hums, and lets Derek roll him onto his side. Curl up beside him, face to face, for some lazy kissing. "Definitely a solid B. Surprising introduction, solid conclusion. Good construction."

"Finals have ruined you."

"No shit." Stiles tries to forget how stressed he is about his remaining papers, and then does his best to bury his head under the pillow instead.

No dice. Derek was still grouching. "And seriously, no A?"

Some people. "A's are reserved for special occasions fucking. Duh. Above and beyond."

"B-plus?"

"Take it up with the professor during office hours."

Derek stops running his palm over the curve of Stiles's belly. "I think I'd rather be the professor."

Fair enough. Derek doesn't really do the young ingénue thing well. Cranky and authoritarian, on the other hand... Stiles shivers. "That could work."

Derek licks his lips. Presses a kiss to the corner of Stiles's mouth. "Later?"

"We've got dinner with dad tonight." 

This time Derek is the one who turns his head and groans into the pillow. “Right." It's not that Derek is pissed to see Stiles's dad; more that Stiles and Derek are desperate for time together. Junior year was not precisely the cakewalk Stiles had been led to believe; and a dry year in California meant even more fires than usual, and even less Derek.

"You did go to the store though, right?

Derek lets up on Stiles a little. Only one arm around his waist, and legs tangled together. "Yeah, I got everything. And a pie."

“Your cholesterol, Jesus.” It’s an old argument. Derek quit smoking when he became a firefighter, but he still eats like he’s a teenager. Which is entirely unfair when Stiles has already had to stop getting Chinese food for midnight munchies. He just loves the MSG so.

“It's sugar-free,” Derek protests, and pushes his cold-ass nose into the side of Stiles's neck. Jerk.

“I'm gonna check!" It's not like Stiles's dad is supposed to have that stuff either.

“Control freak.”

_Rude_. "Yeah, well. One of us should have some control," Stiles grumbles, and Derek snorts. 

"Let me know when that gets old," he says, thumb running gently over the brand just above the curve of Stiles's hipbone. "I've got a few ideas."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THAT'S IT, THE END, THERE ISN'T ANY MORE.
> 
> PROBABLY.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] Multiplied By Seven](https://archiveofourown.org/works/526602) by [dodificus](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dodificus/pseuds/dodificus)
  * [Lasagna](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1042784) by [liquorish](https://archiveofourown.org/users/liquorish/pseuds/liquorish)




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